Tanqueray & Tonic and Other Assorted Cocktales
by wtvoc
Summary: side notes from Scotch, Gin, and the New Girl by jandco and withthevampsofcourse. outtakes, if you will. starting with emmett. rated M for well... sexytimes.
1. Chapter 1

**This is not a story. It's a oneshot. Or series of oneshots, if you like. All based off of the collab by wtvoc and jandco called "Scotch, Gin, and the New Girl."**

**This one was written by wtvoc as per requested from the fabulous qjmom, who is a dirty little birdie and has been pushing for Bella on Emmett action since TAAB. Some of you asked who qjmom is (while simultaneously thanking her), and to you I say SMACK SMACK SMACK. Have you not READ "Passion Fish"? Are you NOT reading "Shadow Guardians"? Effing ess, dude.**

**I'd like to dedicate this little ditty to anyone who has ever schooled a group of boys while playing poker. It's a heady feeling, and I highly recommend it sometime.**

_**Twilight not ours.**_

**Emmett, Scotch Ch. 5**

"I love it when you call me Big Poppa."

And fucking hell, did I ever.

This damned New Girl is so hot, that I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to censor my thoughts around her. I haven't had a boner this big since those L'il Kim mug shots were released to the public. How many licks, Kim? How many licks.

I watched Bella all night, workin' the table like a high-class whore. Honestly, I can't believe no one else noticed how she was systematically taking us out, one by one. I'm no fucking slouch, and Jasper's decent, too. But no one _ever_ beats Cullen. Including me. The only things he ever beats me at are poker, eating girls out (I'm a man, I can admit it), doing calculus in his head, and knowing the lyrics to Wu-Tang (and that shit just pisses me off, yo).

Once I lost my cheddah, I was quite content to simply sit back and watch the show. In fact, I would have been bustin' my shit the hell off if it weren't for Bella; watching her school my nearest and dearest was quite possibly the highlight of my fucking year. And Rosalie looking daggers at the new chick was just icing on the mothafuckin' cake. That bizzo ran so hot and cold with me, and like a chump, I always took it and came back panting for more. What can I say? Big Poppa loves those lengthy BJs in the back of her Beamer. And in the little boy's room. And in the cafeteria pantry. And in her parent's room.

As Bella used her marvelous juggs to her advantage by distracting Edward, I started to daydream, swilling my Tanqueray around; where is that girl? What's-her-tits? Fucking A. I invite her to my house to play with us; the least she could do is fucking bring me my juice when I run out. It's not a fucking lot to ask. Bella was shaking her luscious tits around; I had noticed the braless beauts earlier and Biggie down there got all nice and chubby just thinking about putting them tasty jigglies in my mouth. Mm. I could just picture it- getting her all alone. That damned skirt was short, and I'm pretty sure it would have been easy to indulge my favorite activity and slip my hand up there. Her skin was lovely and pale, and I was getting dizzy just imagining squeezing her creamy thighs. I started flexing my hands in my lap; clenching and unclenching my fingers, I was itching to reach over and caress her legs. I looked down, eyeing the smooth line of her legs. She was little and adorable, but she had nice stems; I was suddenly obsessed with the idea of feeling her all the way up. One of the reasons I liked skirts so much was that I loved to make it a game, trying to figure out what kind of underwear a chick was wearing based on several factors- type of skirt, smoothness of the shaven legs, and level of shyness of the girl involved.

Bella definitely isn't shy. That automatically puts her in one of three categories; hip-huggin' boy short thingies, thong, or commando. Fucking hell, I hoped it was commando. I doubt it, though; she liked to pretend she was all above us and shit. Which means she's a little bit uptight. Plus the whole trying to prove herself factor; quite obviously, Bella is a party girl who hates Those With Money. Me. Cullen. Whitlock. Yet here she sits, suddenly rich and schooling us assholes.

I'm going with boy shorts. Pretending to be demure but driving us (me) the fuck crazy.

I suddenly need to find out what she's wearing. Or not wearing. And remove them. Keep 'em in my mothafuckin' pocket. Not to be gross, just… yeah. Definitely pitching a fucking tent now.

I wonder if she'd let me… hmm. I need to pinch her nipples. I need to taste them. Now.

I shifted uncomfortably; seriously, the prospect of new pussy was truly exciting, and I just couldn't take this anticipation. I think I need to fuck her and move on. Rose wouldn't stand for me chasing after the nouveau riche, though, and there's no way I'm giving up on that cunt. Rose is just too damned tasty for my own good.

Ingrate Girl finally showed up with my Tanq & Tonic; "'bout fuckin' time," I muttered to her, letting my gaze rest on Bella. She was going in for the kill, I could see that clearly. I leaned in to get a closer view of her tits. I could just make out their curves over the edge of her top. If I stood up, I'd definitely be able to see boobage. Unfortunately, my dick was uncooperative and I probably would've injured myself when I stood and took the table with me. Fucker. I hate it when my cock gets in the way of a good tit shot.

Seeing the crestfallen, my-dog-just-died-because-she-stabbed-it-while-naked confused look of lusty anger on Cullen's face made my fucking _night_. And the fact that Big Pimpin' Swan over there put the look on his face? Priceless. I need to do something about this attraction and this hard-on, now. As soon as Bella slapped that Full Boat on the table, I started howling. I jumped up and pulled her into my arms, swinging her around. I'm pretty sure she could feel my enormous schlong brushing up against her ass and I just didn't give a flying fuck. I kept eyeing Edward, getting off on the annoyed expression on his face as he sat there, all sulky asshole. I was making Bella kick people, using it as an excuse to touch her smooth, shaven legs. Definitely boy shorts, and most likely 100% cotton. That shit needs to breathe. Give the pussy some air.

The one hand I had on her ass was starting to have a mind of its own; I didn't blame it. I was massaging my thumb around as I swung her little body, and I could feel her squirming beneath me. Dirty girl. She looked up at me, a knowing smile on her face. Fuck. Maybe I was going to get lucky with the new girl tonight.

Dare to dream, Big Poppa. Dare to dream.

"Emmett! Put me the fuck down!" Her words said "no", but her eyes and wiggling ass were all invitation. I was running up the stairs, no clear thought in mind. I just wanted to have her all to my fucking self. I brought her to the rec room upstairs that we didn't usually party in; this was where my beautiful flat screen lived, and I didn't need no nosey bitches in here, inspecting my porn and drinking my good booze.

"Make me a drink," she commanded, and I certainly obliged. Bella had been sipping her G&J judiciously; she made it look like she drank a lot, but she was obviously trying to throw everyone off their game. The next poker game should prove interesting since the cat was outta the bag as far as her hustling skills went. Gah. She's a hustla, baby. She just wants me ta _know_.

"Tequila shots it is, boo," I said, bustin' out my smile. Now, I know for a fact that dimples got me more than my fair share of punani, and I had no problem using them to my advantage. Her eyes sparkled as I poured, walking right up to her on the counter and holding the shot glass to her lips. She had been laughing, throwing her head back and kicking her heels against the wood of the bar. She opened up her lips obediently, taking what I gave her with one gulp. Fuck. I want those lips wrapped around my dick, yo.

"So, thanks, Big Pimpin'. That was excellent." I leaned forward, putting one arm on the countertop so that I was brushing against her side; I poured us each another shot with my other hand, never breaking eye contact. She reached down and grabbed the shot glass, bringing it up to my mouth this time. Licking my lips, I accepted the shot, grimacing as it burned down my throat. Her half-smile just then was making me fucking hard, and with a stunnah grin, I leaned forward and nuzzled her neck.

"What was excellent?" she breathed. I could feel her tits pressed up against me as her breathing picked up; fuck, yeah. There were definitely a few handfuls waiting for me in that flimsy top of hers.

"You know. Schooling my boy. He needed it. Gives me an excuse to shovel it in his face. I know he's just dying that I've got you up here all alone right now." Her laugh filled the room; she was leaning back now, tossing her hair around in delight. I could smell her, and dayum. She smelled delicious. I couldn't stand it anymore. I grabbed her hips and pulled her into me.

I looked down and she had dropped the smile; she was just looking up at me, lust and beauty staring into my face. I grabbed the back of her neck, twining my fingers into her hair. I brought her up to me, brushing my mouth on hers and then she was opening wide, lightly brushing her tongue against mine. Mm. Making out with the new girl.

She put her arms on my biceps, pulling me in. Opened her legs up. I stepped into them, pressing up against her in all the yummy places. Her little squeaks and sighs were a fucking turn-on, dammit. And she was a fucktastic kisser, too. No teeth knocking together, no weird tongue swirl maneuvers. Just gentle massages and man, her fucking bottom lip was killing me. It was juicy and pouty; I wanted to bite it. I think I will.

That made her sigh. _Do it again_.

Nipping her lip made her start gyrating a little bit against my dick, which I always encourage. _I think it's time to find out what kind of panties this chick has on._ She was arching, and I moved my hand from her neck to the lower part of her back just above her ass. While lightly nibbling on her mouth and tongue, I slowly moved my hand from her hip and went down her leg. I could feel her trembling and tensing muscles as I tickled with light fingertips down her bare thigh; she was lifting her leg a little by the time I made it to her knee, and I took that as an express invitation to answer my burning questions about her drawers.

Now, I'm a great lay. I just am. But something told me Bella was, too. The anticipation I was feeling was making me giddy and fucking _horny_. I had to fight the urge to just paw at her and take her right fucking there, which I'm sure she was all for, especially since she was straining her hips in the direction of my hand. But I wanted to make this one count, too. If I'm going to piss off my buddies, I should do it thoroughly. I mean, anything worth doing's worth doing right. Am I right?

Fuckin' A.

Her squirming and fast-paced breathing was adding to my frenzy, and I had to take a deep breath to slow the hell down. My hand was creeping up, hitting the hem of her skirt. This made her spread 'em a bit, for which I was grateful. Nothin' worse than a coy pussy.

I could feel her tensing under me, and I decided to start playing. I slowly brought my hand back up to her waist, cupping her with both hands now as I brought us both upright. I looked down and grinned a devilish grin; she looked pissed, yet somehow delighted. Raising her eyebrow, she said, "Are you fucking kidding me? It was just getting good."

Throwing my head back in laughter, I planted a kiss on her cheek and then whispered into her ear, "Oh, just you fuckin' wait, Mama. Big Poppa's got a few things up his sleeve."

She whispered right back into my ear, "I fucking hope so."

I ran my tongue up her neck and tickled her earlobe; she sighed and started giving me these frickin' light kisses right above my collar, running her fingers through the curls at the back of my neck. Crap, it felt great. I mean really fucking great.

We went at it for a few minutes. I mean _really_ went at it. The kind of kissing and writhing where if you were naked, you'd be fucking. Which is annoying, but I get that girls need that barrier sometimes. Makes 'em feel more comfortable about getting freaky later. Like they put up resistance or some shit when they clearly just want it.

She was all pressed up on my dick, but I wanted her to come to me. I hadn't moved my hands for a while, and I could sense her getting impatient. Right in the palm of my hand, so to speak. And she knew what I was doing, too. But I would win this one. Hot New Girl or not, no way I was going to let her dictate how this went.

"You're a fucking tease," she giggled into my ear, sighing because I was tickling her neck with the tip of my tongue. My answering laughter annoyed and delighted her; sighing, she sat up straighter and then fucking moved her hands to my shoulders and clawed down. Hard. It felt fucking amazing. Hell. Fuck. Her fingernails were scratching down my arms, and I grinned lazily, hoping she'd leave marks. Always good to have reminders the next day. One of my favorite scars was sex-related.

Now here's where I lost coherency. One moment I'm nipping at her neck, the next she's moving _my_ hands down _her_ legs, which I do not fucking mind at all. Maybe I'd get to confirm my unmentionables theory. I looked down at her, grinning my pussy-winning smile, and she answered me with the sexiest face I have ever seen on a woman in my life. She was all raised eyebrow and smirk and slightly sucked-in cheeks. Fucking hot. Dimpling even wider at her, I not-so-slowly-or-smoothly moved my hand up her thighs, gripping her hips underneath her skirt. Taking a steadying breath, I lightly ran both of my thumbs down. Cotton, definitely cotton. I moved my fingertips up a bit to find the upper edge and yep. Bingo. Boy shorts. _I am so fucking good at this_.

Her head was thrown back and she was sighing; I couldn't help it. She just looked so sweet and adorable, even though I knew she wasn't. I put a soft kiss at the base of her throat, making her clench underneath her skirt. That's right; I could feel that shit underneath my thumbs, which I hadn't fucking moved. I was waiting for permission in the form of either further leg-spreading or legs wrapping around my waist to continue my perusal of her panties. I can't be exactly sure, but I think she's…dare I say it… bare. Down there. Boy shorts and Brazilians… these are a few of my favorite things, yo.

I was starting to get serious wood, and I know I keep saying that, but fuck, dude. This girl was killing me. Too cute for anyone's good, and sexy as all get-out. Plus the poker thing… I'd better nail 'er before I start having a fucking crush or some shit. Move it, Emmett.

I wrapped her up in my arms, pulling her closer to me. Nibbling her neck. Chicks love that. She pressed into me, and I could feel her hard nipples pushing against me, which of course means I need to touch them. I let go and brought my hands between us, finally feeling her soft breasts in my palms. Wow. These were real, not like the fake tits most bitches in this town got for their sixteenth birthday. Real. Soft, and so damned lovely. I closed my eyes because I didn't want her to see me rolling them into the back of my head. I love me a good set of tits, but these were unbelievable.

I was nuzzled in her neck and about to attempt to steal third when that fucker Cullen had to pipe in with his rude comment. I groaned loudly, realizing that my night was over. I had to push away and begin immediate Red Alert Retreat Protocol; dirty play, Edward. Dirty. I'd have been proud if it were anyone but me at the receiving end.

_Maybe Rosalie's still here_. She hates sloppy seconds, but she never could resist a cock in front of her mouth.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**If you liked it, maybe we'll do more. If not, well. Sorry.**


	2. Chapter 2

From the Forks Website, Town History section…

_As related by Elizabeth "Betty" Whitlock Masen in the months preceding her death in 1938_

The town of Forks, Washington is located on the Olympic Peninsula in the Pacific Northwest.

Forks has a long and proud tradition of being a part of Small Town America. The exclusive schools and upscale style of living has ensured a level of expectancy and excellence that is maintained through the contributions of its citizens, most notably amongst the older families who have called Forks home for generations.

The most esteemed of the families are descendants of Forks' founder, Horatio Masen. The Masen family continues to be at the forefront of all benevolent activity that occurs in most of the Peninsula, contributing much time and effort to various charities in the area and making appearances whenever an air of sophistication and glamour is needed. The much-lauded Masen family is known for their generosity, their selflessness, and their willingness to participate in anything that will better their fellow man.

This tradition of philanthropy and class started back in the era of the settling of the west; the time of Gold Rush and Manifest Destiny. Horatio Masen was the youngest son of the well-to-do Masens of Virginia; coming from a tobacco plantation that was dabbling in various forms of flavor experiments with the crop, Horatio Masen was known as a maverick son who wanted to expand family operations to include distilleries for an emerging type of "hooch" he had been experimenting with. His father indulged everything that he did, so he allowed his son to burn down a portion of their unused rice fields in order to sow the necessary crop to create this beverage he was crazy for; Horatio gambled extensively to earn the scratch needed to set up shop. He was known as a gambler in those parts, and many traveled far and wide to challenge the great Horatio Masen and his poker skills; Yankees especially attempted to hustle the Southern Gentleman for his money, but he never lost a single game. He was fond of creating side bets and it is said that he once played the great Jasper Newton "Jack" Daniel, winning Jack Daniel's recipe for the famous No. 7 Whiskey that is famous the world over today.

Unfortunately for Horatio and his family, one night while he was inspecting his barrels and entertaining a group of Ladies visiting from England, Horatio made an error in judgment and an incident ensued that is not in the books but has been passed down orally as "the straw that broke the camel's back" (_please click here to read "Horatio Masen: Never met a woman he didn't adore")_. Horatio was sent packing and his father, the great tobacconist and future investor in Phillip-Morris, Nathaniel Masen, politely requested of his youngest son and "greatest disappointment" to please seek his fortune elsewhere.

It was with this regretted invective that our hero Horatio Masen set out to make his fortune on the Oregon Trail, armed with not much more than his smile that would "gain him entrée to the best establishments in all of Christendom" and a Winchester he had won off of a traveling cowboy. He brought along his ambition and ideas for growing tobacco in the Pacific Northwest; he was incredibly excited at the prospect of making his way in the world and looked forward to the moment when he could return to the bosom of his family with his newfound riches and status as a Great Man.

Little did he expect the hardships that awaited him in the wild, wild west. Not only did he nearly die from dysentery while on the long, arduous journey from Promontory Point, but he had several incidents with some natives (_please click here to read "Horatio Masen: Buffalo Wrangler and Indian Peacekeeper") _that would influence his future dealings once he arrived in the area that would come to be known as Washington.

He decided to head to California and make his fortune in San Francisco once word of the great Gold Rush hit the would-be settlers; making several gambles that he knew would yield positive results, Horatio earned enough cash to continue his dream of seeing the Oregon Country. He was not satisfied, however, to settle somewhere that was already on its way to prosperity, so he continued north from Oregon to the wild beauty of the Future Olympic Peninsula.

He reached the area that is now Forks with money in his pocket, broken-hearted women trailing in his wake, and a dream of recreating the gentle fields and sprawling plantations of his woebegone youth. He wrote often to his family of his adventures, but he never received any response; whether this was due to the stubborn refusal of his father to recognize the accomplishments of his disappointing son or the unreliable Pony Express will forever remain a mystery; all that is known is that Horatio Masen knew he was home once he reached the beautiful and gentle woods of Forks.

There was a native American contingent in place that was resistant to the Pale Faces that were beginning to invade their area (_please click here to read "Horatio Masen: the North Natives aren't so different from the Midwestern Natives"_), and Horatio once again found himself as Peacekeeper between a burgeoning white infestation and the harsh, unrefined native population.

Now, it is a little-known fact that Forks derives its name not from the crossroads between civilization and the untamed wild like is assumed, but from the story of Horatio and the Family Silver.

One thing Horatio was not was completely trustworthy, and he had managed to escape with a significant portion of his Great Grandmother Eugenie's Silver Service. He lugged it across the American Plains along with some other valuable family heirlooms (of his and other unsuspecting, enterprising yet poor-at-Poker youngest sons also attempting to earn their fortunes on the Oregon Trail), and it was these valuable-to-East-Coasters pieces of shiny worth that would get Horatio all that he desired- a town of his own. When things were looking bad, in desperation, Horatio offered the Chief of the Quileute tribe a handful of silverware in desperation. There he was, standing in a circle of fierce-faced warriors, thrusting a handful of forks at Hackles Raised, the tall and unamused tribal Chieftain. It is said that the Chief cracked his first smile of his life as he readily accepted the silverware and several assorted pieces of silver; the natives were so amused by the eating utensils of the white people that they could not stop laughing at the ridiculous lengths the Pale Faces would go to maintain their "civility". Chuckling and clutching their forks, they whooped off into the night, allowing Horatio and his small band of ruffians to set up camp in the damp woods that is the current site of Forks Academy.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Horatio declared that their salvation lied with the forks, and thusly the town was named.

Today, several monuments to the great founder of Forks remain as reminders to the stalwart efforts of Horatio and his gambling nature. Most notable is the statue that stands in front of the Horatio, a hotel that was created in the style of his Virginian home that he learned was burned down during the Civil War several years after he left to seek his fortune.

Horatio was never "able to return home", but he was able to travel back shortly before his untimely death (_please click here to read "Horatio Masen: the Tragic Duel"_) in 1874 and relate his adventures to the survivors of the family. Every single one of his brothers had died fighting for the Glorious South in the war, but the Masen family of Virginia continues to live through to this day through his nephews from his sister.

The Masen family of Forks is survived by Esme Masen-Cullen, philanthropist and Rhodes Scholar, and her son Edward Masen Cullen, who currently attends Forks Academy. Both the Masen and the Cullen wing of Forks Academy were created several years ago, ensuring that the legacy of Horatio Masen will live on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Lauren Mallory**

I reread the text on my Blackberry.

Well, fuck.

This just put the fucking cherry on my already cake fucking day.

First, my ever-incompetent mother Muffy failed at getting my dress tailored by Miss Mimi— so I'd have to skip the benefit.

I couldn't go without a Mimi-fitted dress. Hell no. That Homecoming Queen nomination wasn't a lock yet.

And now this.

"Mo-ther," I snapped, barging into the massage parlor, where Muffy was in a white towel, being felt up by Christophe, her preferred masseuse.

"Cripes, darling. You know better than to disturb Mother's sessions with Christophe." She stretched like a lazy whore cougar on a hot tin roof. Christophe didn't even bother hiding his hands as he continued to knead her hairless and tanned lower back/upper ass flesh. " I need to be refreshed for—"

"Mother, what the hell happened at Miss Mimi's, and how did you miss it? God knows you weren't busy seeing to my gown being altered, so how on earth did you manage to fuck up twice before noon?"

"Darling, you're keyed up. It's affecting my aura. Calm down and tell me what you're blathering about." The disgusting Frenchman who pretended not to understand English was eyeing me up and down, probably wondering about a gross threesome. I'd have to put him in his place next time I "caught" him and Jessica in the back of her Daddy's vintage Aston Martin.

"I just got a text saying Bella Swan attacked Rosalie Hale at Miss Mimi's."

Muffy gasped and reached behind her to swat at Christophe's oiled hands.

"Attacked? Wait—who is Bella Swan?"

"The Hotchkiss Mistake," I huffed impatiently.

"Oh, yes. Her. She was there…rudely blocking the door."

"Well?"

Muffy reached her hand to an end table and felt around a vase of tea roses and her afternoon Bloody Mary until she found her phone. She made sure to set it on speaker so that everyone would hear.

M: "Bitsy, honey, it's Muffy."

B: "Muffy, I was just going to ring you, you know, to be sure you're all safe over there."

M: "We're safe, we're fine…but an attack? Can you imagine?"

B: "Unfortunately, I don't have to. I was there."

M: "No!"

B: "Yes. It was awful and I'm just so shaken up now…"

M: "You should make an emergency appointment with Dr. Wilson. And take a Valium."

B: "Oh, darling, I have. Luckily, we still have Grandmother Yorkie's Glaucoma prescriptions. I hate to blaze up, but sometimes it's simply necessary when the narcotics just stop working."

M: "You're lucky to have some. My in-laws were dead when Tristan and I married, you know. I have no such old person connection. Then again… their lack of interfering and his trust fund kicking in were the appeal in the first pla-"

B: "You know, this was my fear the moment we caught wind of the Hotchkiss girl coming to town. I was certain she'd be a bad influence, but now…now I'm concerned for the kid's safety on top of it."

M: "What exactly happened?"

B: "I was just complimenting Blaine McCarty on how well Emmett is playing this season, and the next thing I knew, the Swan girl was going absolutely mad. I've never seen anything quite like it."

M: "Do you suppose she was high?"

B: "Well, now I don't know. But she did seem to be awfully twitchy. Does anyone know what her teeth are like? Renee was many things, but she had excellent orthodontia."

M: "Oh, my. Is she… what do they call them? Tweekers? I saw that on 20/20 once."

B: "Goodness. It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, there's never to my knowledge been a meth lab in Forks, but with this new element that is intruding upon our-"

M: "You know, I once saw an old RV rumbling up in front of that record store. Do you suppose-"

B: "Mmm. And now this Hotchkiss Girl is bringing her meth and her NASCAR aesthetic to Forks."

M: "You know, now that I think about it- Iris said she saw the Hotchkiss come out of that secondhand record store down on Main. And you know they say that hipster who owns the place has piercings in unmentionable places."

B: "My, my. I hadn't heard that. I'll just bet- oh, but I wouldn't want to create gossip."

M: "What is it, dear? You know you can tell me."

B: "Well, piercings and tattoos go hand-in-hand. Remember when Colleen went off on that walkabout back in the eighties and came home with that awful design on her ankle and her nose and lip pierced?"

M: "Mm hmm. I remember that Old Miss Whitlock almost didn't allow Tal to marry, how did she put it? The Upstart Trailer Park with a mouth that was almost as big and accommodating as her vagina?"

B: "Oh, who could forget that? She did it at that awful McCarty cousin's debut."

M: "Heavens, you're right. Ole Miss was a nasty old bitch, but she certainly ruled Forks with an iron fist."

B: "I always rather considered it an iron penis."

M: "Bitsy! You are so bad."

B: "I apologize, darling. Brigid is late with my afternooner, as per usual."

M: "I just don't understand your insistence on hiring Irish. It's unseemly."

B: "Look, she's a distant cousin and needed to pay her way through college. I'm just doing my part for the underprivileged, sweetie. Let's talk about this fight, now."

M: "Poor Rosalie…poor Margeaux. Have you talked to her since?"

B: "I was about to call, but I thought I'd give her some time…I hear there may be a scar."

M: "Margeaux must be beside herself…to have her daughter a victim of such an unmitigated attack."

B: "I know…I did see Mitzi Stanley there. Maybe she knows more details. I'll give her a ring."

M: "Yes, do…and get back to me. If there's anything we can do…"

B: "Of course. Ciao."

**Bitsy Yorkie**

B: "Mitzi, Darling, it's Bits."

MZ: "Bitsy…oh, I was trying to catch up with you at Mimi's."

B: "Yes, well…actually, I'm calling about this Hotchkiss girl—"

MZ: "Could you believe it?"

B: "I just heard, but I wasn't able to secure any details. You know, as a parent and as a chairperson on the Academy board, I do feel like it's my responsibility to know the details."

MZ: "Of course, of course. And did you hear Rosalie Hale might have a harelip now? Such a shame, she was such a stunning girl."

B: "No! "

MZ: "Yes, and her D&G designer eyelashes poked her in the retina and she'll need glasses now."

B: "She can't wear glasses with an Alexander McQueen original!"

MZ: "I know. Poor Margeaux. I should call her."

B: "Let me know what she says and if there's anything we can do.... I can have Consuela make that zesty enchilada salad with the fat-free dressing that she likes so much."

MZ: "Of course."

B: "Mitzi? Do _you_ happen to know why the Hotchkiss girl attacked?"

MZ: "Other than mental instability, I hear she was a bit jealous of Rosalie…apparently, she has a crush on Edward Cullen. Poor girl. Who doesn't?"

B: "Oh lord, I know. The twins keep attempting to hatch these plans to get him in some dark corner. In fact, they might be seeking him out tonight. I hear he was looking delish at Mimi's."

MZ: "You'd better not let the help hear you call her 'Mimi.' You know how those people talk."

B: "Oh, fine. Miss Mimi. That's probably how Muffin ticked her off this morning."

MZ: "I wouldn't be surprised. And I want to go back to Edward."

B: "Mitz, you know me. If I wore t-shirts, I'd have Gordon order me a 'Cougar' shirt."

MZ: "You'd better get me one, too. Those, oh, what do they call them. Blinged-out, I think is the term?"

B: "I wouldn't know. Have Blaine ask Emmett."

MZ: "Blaine. That Bastard."

B: "Oh, God, honey. I'm sorry. I forgot. But it's been months-"

MZ: "Months since he promised to- oh, fuck. I'm going to cry."

B: "Honey, you know that shit La Prairie doesn't work well with tears. I've told you a thousand times, Dead Sea Salts are the new thing."

MZ: "Oh, dammit. I know. I just… look, be a dear and distract me so I don't cry, would you?"

B: "Oh, honey. Of course. Umm… oh, the Hotchkiss Mistake."

MZ: "Right. Thank you, darling. So… apparently she thought she had a chance, and when she saw Edward and Rosalie talking…well."

B: "And that's when she assaulted Rosalie."

MZ: "Exactly. Thank God Emmett was there to pull her away. I don't even like to think of what could have happened."

B: "Blaine's boy broke up the fight?"

MZ: "Yes…and then Emmett and Jasper Whitlock and the Swan girl left…my Jessica says Jasper and Isabella keep close company, if you know what I mean."

B: "Well. I'm not surprised. He's always been a bit wayward…I just don't know why Colleen enables such behavior. Marriage has really tempered her, but I'm starting to see old rebellious Colleen resurfacing in her son."

MZ: "I wonder if Iris Newton has spoken to Colleen…they're co-hosting garden club this month. I'm going to give Iris a call."

B: "Mmm, yes. Call me back, Mitzi…"

MZ: "Of course."

**Mitzi Stanley**

I: "Iris Newton."

MZ: "Iris, doll, it's Mitzi."

I: "You heard. Thank God. I hate to be the bearer of bad news."

MZ: "Don't we all? It's just such a shame…I've been wondering, do you have any idea what provoked the girl?"

I: "Obviously jealousy…and, well, I hate to be a gossip, but my Michael used to see that girl over the summer. We thought it'd be the charitable thing to do, to let Michael escort her around…but now, now I'm just thankful he didn't get hurt…anyway, Michael says this Isabella is like her mother in the fact that she enjoys the boys."

MZ: "Well, Bitsy _did_ just tell me Jasper Whitlock and her keep close company—"

I: "And Michael said he saw her and Edward Cullen getting awful comfortable in his car on school property…"

MZ: "And Edward and Jasper are such good friends. That little tramp came between them?"

I: "Obviously not, Mitzi. Neither a Cullen nor a Whitlock would take up with, well, the Hotchkiss girl…I'm sure that's why she got so aggressive with Rosalie. Such a shame."

MZ: "Well, I will be concerned for my Jessica now…"

I: "Really, Mitzi…I wouldn't be worried."

MZ: "Are you implying—"

I: "Heavens no. Jessica is lovely. I'm simply saying, well, Rosalie is Chip's daughter. I'm sure the Hale girl was up to something…of course, nothing warrants a physical attack."

MZ: "Of course."

I: "Well, I do think I'll give Margeaux a call…I want to give her the name of our lawyer and send my best wishes."

MZ: "Of course."

**Margeaux Hale**

My cell phone hadn't stopped chiming.

Chip's cell phone hadn't stopped chiming.

Rosalie's cell phone hadn't stopped chirping that disgusting "Womanizer" song that Chip liked so much.

The house phone was ringing, the business line was ringing.

My daughter looked like hell, and I'd never thought that possible. Hadn't I told her time and time again that in the face of adversity, we must always appear well-groomed, well-coiffured, and well-moisturized? No use facing your enemies if you looked like a wrinkled and indigent homeless person.

"Well. This is just fucking fantastic," I snapped, tilting her chin up so I could reassess the damage. I'd have to watch this nursing act- I just got my manicure done, and there's no way Loretta would be able to fit me in at this late hour for a touch-up if I marred a corner.

"Do you think I'm thrilled? Look at me! I look like…like…I'm a monster!"

"You look like a cheap whore who's been sucker-punched by her john is what you look like," I muttered.

I had no maternal comfort to offer—she _did_ look like a monster. I hoped this would clear up before prom pictures.

Chip walked in with Ana Lisa trailing behind him, which was a nice switch up for them, because usually my bastard husband was behind the housekeeper.

I would have fired her months ago, but frankly, the linens never looked so crisp and the silver was polished to perfection. One has to weigh these pros and cons carefully.

Ana Lisa's face was covered by another extravagantly fragrant bouquet with another Get Well balloon bobbing around.

"Put it with the others, Ana Lisa, and for heaven's sake, answer the damn phone," I sighed, attempting to put ice on Rosalie's mouth again.

"It hurts. It's not helping—"

"Dr. Cullen will see you about the scarring first thing Monday," Chip said.

"Monday? That's the best you could do? Dammit, Chip, look at her! I knew I should have called—"

"Maybe you should have. If you offered your—"

"Enough, Chip," I snapped and tossed the icepack on the marble counter.

"What the hell am I going to do? I can't go out in public like this! I can't—"

"Blaine McCarty, Mrs. Hale," Ana Lisa rudely interrupted.

"Take the call, Chip. Now Rosalie, we'll cover it up the best we can and it will have to be good enough. You can't hide. It reeks of scandal…and we've had enough of that," I said, eyeing my husband and the hired help.

She at least had the decency to look away, but Chip was mimicking his golf swing, cell phone cradled between his face and shoulder.

**Chip Hale**

BL: "Hale."

CH: "McCarty. Your boy has some answering to do. My daughter has a cut on her face—"

BL: "Sorry about the involvement, but he was only trying to help. The Hotchkiss piece set him up. And your daughter's porcelain veneers knocked a stone loose on Emmett's ring. I'll let you know what the damage is when—"

CH: "You're fucking dreaming, McCarty."

BL: "I want that shit paid for, Hale."

CH: "Then you'd better dip into that off-shore to fund your boy's habits like you do for your own."

BL: "Look…I want it paid for and I don't want my kid's name in this mess. He's already been accepted to—"

CH: "No deal. I won't pay for your kid's ghetto accessories, and if I have to deal with the fallout of a high school scandal, so do you."

BL: "Fine. A sucker punch is nothing compared to what your daughter pulled."

CH: "Our Rosalie was attacked—"

BL: "Holy shit, Chip. You had no idea?"

CH: "What the hell are you talking about, McCarty?"

BL: "She doesn't just have your eyes, Bocelli. Apparently, your daughter also picked up your penchant for interesting wagers. Emmett tells me she put herself up for jackpot."

CH: "Blaine, I swear to God—"

BL: "Look, Chip. You should know what she's up to. She pulled Hotchkiss and Edward Cullen into some kind of bet…and told the Cullen kid if he won, he could—"

CH: "Shit."

BL: "Yeah."

I hung the phone up.

My daughter.

My baby girl.

Okay, so we don't exactly go on fishing trips together, but hell. I paid her Amex and bought her car.

"Rosalie Lilian Hale."

"Shit, Chip, don't yell—"

"I didn't yell, Margeaux—"

"Go tell Ana Lisa to get the damn Neosporin, I told her three times already—"

"Rosalie. Did you offer, er, yourself to Edward Cullen…if he won a bet?"

"Chip! Don't be—"

"Rosalie. Blaine says you did."

Her scratched ,bruised face went smug and stone and then I knew…

My baby girl was just like me.

Not in the business smarts, smooth golf swing kind of way.

"Dammit, Rosalie! You can't just go around—"

"Jackie Cheney on the phone, Ma'am," Ana Lisa cut in, and Margeaux was already staring off in a Prozac -induced protective haze.

Rosalie's eyes narrowed and she was going to peg me for being a hypocrite—so I reached for the phone.

"Yes, get the phone, Daddy. But be sure to tell Mrs. Cheney you only fuck her during office hours."

Ana Lisa dropped a vase of lilies.

Margeaux kept staring.

Rosalie smiled sweetly, then touched a finger to her pretty, busted lip.

**Colleen Whitlock**

I need to quit smoking.

I need Jasper to quit smoking.

I need Tal to help me clasp his mother's pearls around my neck for the ridiculous porpoises.

I need the damned phone to stop ringing, so I can just be still and think for a few minutes before I have to paint my face and pin my hair and smile at people I don't want to smile at.

Wealth has a price.

I've always known this.

Talbot and I always wanted the best for Jasper—and when he was young, I was so sure we could find the balance.

I was positive we could raise him with the advantages of money but keep him humble and grateful ; all we ever wanted was for Jasper to be a strong, kind man.

Just a good person.

And he was likeable. Popular just for being himself… but the friends worried me.

Rosalie Hale.

Edward Cullen.

Alice Brandon…who I'm not entirely sure is worthy of my son's adoration…

Talbot and I let Jasper carve his own path, and he's always made us proud. But as far as the friends were concerned…well.

I knew they were spoiled and disillusioned and the all-around bad influences everyone's parents warn everyone about…

But Talbot and I had faith in Jasper.

We just trusted that he wouldn't be swayed by his peers, we relied on the fact that we raised him good and strong-willed…yet we worried.

And by the time I got the seventeenth message on my cell, I was beyond worried.

He wouldn't.

He just—we raised him better.

I was still fumbling with the pearls when Jasper swung by my door, and I noticed he must not have made it to Mimi's.

"Too late for Miss Mimi?" I called after he had passed my open door.

Jasper took two steps back and poked his head in. I heard the ridiculous chain that was hanging from his pants hit my door frame. I knew he'd remove it for the porpoises, but he'd probably wear his father's vintage Steely Dan shirt under the tux.

"Something like that. The pearls look classic, Ma."

"Thanks…oh, Jasper?"

"Hmm?"

"Why am I getting phone calls detailing a bitch fight at Miss Mimi's- involving Rosalie Hale, Bella Swan, Emmett, and you?"

"It was…nothing. You know how these people blow everything up, Ma."

"Jasper? Sabrina McCarty mentioned a bet…about sex…you would never be involved in something like that, right?"

"Ma…" he shook his head slightly and I heard the wallet chain clank against the wall one more time as he disappeared down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**We sure hope y'all are enjoying these little ditties.**

**There has never been more enjoyment, ever, at researching "old money surnames". Seriously. I'd like to thank google for "Talbot".**

**But Margeaux was all jandco's idea. In honor of **_**Punky Brewster.**_

**And Blaine? You twilighteders who are old dinosaurs will remember the summer of Spader. That's a **_**Pretty in Pink**_** nod.**

**Anyways….**

**Oh, this one's for the ever-lovely Pastiche Pen. Guh-nomes, BB. Gnomes.**

**Jasper**

I dropped Emmett off after dropping Bella off—now it was just me, Slurpee remnants and Solomon Burke.

Yes, Solomon. I do, indeed, feel like crying.

Shit is just…it's no good.

Bella just beat the sparkle outta Rosalie Hale, and while I can't say she didn't have it coming—I hate that La Bella is so torn up that she resorted to that shit.

Then Emmett drops that ditty while we're all shoulder to fucking shoulder in the car…for all he has, that bitch lacks tact.

Then shit was just awkward and I'm too mellow for awkward, dammit—but the kick in the teeth was it was only awkward because there was truth to what Emmett said.

Shoot.

I'd considered it, to an embarrassing degree, before.

Me and La Bella.

That shit just made sense.

She's a beautiful lady, smart as hell, funny as shit, enjoys discount retail, and knows good music.

I thought about what she might taste like. A lot.

I thought about how comfortable it would be to wake up tangled up in all that brown hair.

La Bella fit me.

So, why the hell did I still want to curve and bend somehow into Alice Brandon's life? Alice fidgets when I play the guitar. She can't even let me get through an entire song without opening her mouth.

Alice wears ridiculously overpriced shoes that cost more than La Bella's entire Target wardrobe—just because she can.

I hate that shit.

La Bella does what the hell she wants despite our judgmental, catty peers—Alice defines the word conformist.

Alice idolizes Donatella Versace.

Alice fucks drummers for status.

Alice went to Milan instead of taking her SATs.

Alice does not fit me.

So why the fuck am I driving to her house?

Because Alice is all of those things, but I am an astute fellow, and I've seen the look in her eye when she hears a good, live guitar solo.

Because in the seventh grade when she noticed my spontaneous boner in Geography class, she smiled sweetly and said nothing to anyone, not even Rosalie, not ever.

Because sophomore year, I saw her pick a flower from Mrs. Hale's rose garden and put it behind her ear and shrugged when Rosalie warned her about bugs and pesticides.

Because I can see someone smarter, kinder, and better than she shows.

I see glimpses of fucking amazing—and it would just be too good to pass up.

So, I'm going to Alice's with a new playlist—because that's what we do.

I give her my picks, and she gives me hers, and even though I usually want to laugh at her lists, I don't—because it's our thing.

It's my guarantee that I'll see Alice at least once a week on not-Academy property, and it's pathetic and desperate of me, but it's what I do anyway.

But this time.

Well.

This time I had to draw some kind of conclusion…because if all I was ever going to get from Alice were glimpses, then fuck it.

I should just be where I knew I fit for sure.

With La Bella.

Because she'd get it.

She loved Edward, but hell, she fit with him about as well as I fit with Alice.

Maybe Emmett was right, we just weren't looking at it clearly…but there was only one way to find out.

I pulled up and Alice's car was in the drive.

I felt a headache start to pulse behind my eyes.

I'm too level for this shit.

I fucking hate being confused.

**Alice**

If breast cancer is pink and AIDS is red…what the hell color ribbon does one wear to support the porpoises?

I would've called Rosalie, because she knows everything…but I guessed I shouldn't bother her with my crisis right then.

Her poor face.

Her poor, beautiful, perfect, glowing, marred face.

I felt awful. I mean, the Academy year book staff hadn't even finished compiling pictures…thank god Dr. Cullen is the best plastic surgeon in the Pacific Northwest.

I felt awful. Really.

If this wasn't fixable, Rosalie would be scarred. She would be less than perfect. She would have to hide her face. Hmm. She wouldn't be able to point out my flaws. She could have an actual physical flaw of her own. Something that put her down on my level. Something that …

I shouldn't think like that.

Rosalie was my best friend, and she got attacked.

But it wasn't really unprovoked, like everyone thought…and a few weeks ago, I had started to notice Edward Cullen acting all different.

I pushed my tits up against him in the cafeteria last week and he didn't push back, like he used to. He actually kind of backed away.

He smiled at Bella like, well. Not like he smiled at Jessica or me or any other girl.

He smiled at her like he meant it.

I thought it was kind of sweet, in a vomit-inducing kind of way, but Rosalie didn't.

She pulled her attitude on me when I mentioned Edward looking pussy -whipped—and I got pissed.

Of _course_ I wouldn't back out of my end of the bet.

I'd fuck him—he's Edward Cullen. He's fuckable.

The thing is, I know Rosalie Hale. To a T. She was worried—about losing the bet, about not being the best, about who-the-fuck-knows else… but she's been worried, and worry causes crow's feet and it causes Rosalie to be a mega ice bitch. I guess the wrinkles will be the least of her problems now—that big fat gash on her face could leave a long, jagged scar, and her Lipglass probably wouldn't go on so smoothly over that fat, bloodied lip…

Which meant I was now most definitely the prettiest piece at school.

I rather liked that title.

I started to smile, stopped, then let allowed it because, fuck it. I smeared on my new Sweet Revenge Nars Lip Gloss, glad that I had gotten to it before Rose. She had totally poached my Orgasm because I had tossed it in a fit of pique, furious that it didn't accurately mimic my post-coital glow. So she took the blush, owned it, and then started the rumor that she had suggested to Karl that he make a gloss to match, but only I knew that it was actually her cousin, Ingrid, who had cozied up to that icky Swede. Or was it Finn? Anyway, Sweet Revenge was _mine_. I glossed up, posturing and pouting through a series of Prettiest Girl poses, glancing at the door to make sure I was by myself. No one was here to see me being a teeny, tiny bit okay with the fact that my best friend was now a notch or nine under perfect…

But still.

Isabella Swan might be a certifiable psychotic.

I saw that crazy-ass look in her dull, unlined eyes. She knew about the bet, and she went after Rosalie—which could only mean she'd be coming after me next.

Hopefully her cop daddy would lock her up or do to her whatever one does with crazy people. Maybe give her a good tranquilizer prescription. My mother once punched Sra. Castellanas, our former chef, because she was convinced she was slipping weight gainer into mothers protein shakes.

My mother was then put on tranquilizers and moved to Europe.

They really work quite well—she's never been happier. Less fun, but happier.

I flipped open my phone and sent a text to Rose.

_Are you okay? I'm a worried mess! That bitch had no right—how's the face? XOXO BFF A_.

I sat down at my vanity and studied my pores.

Isabella Swan had better not fuck with my complexion. I didn't slather SPF 60 every time I went outside a la Kidman for nothing.

Taylor probably doesn't go for chicks with scars… _Taylor_.

I pulled out a nail file and contemplated drummers…the rhythm…the tattoos, the energy—

Drummers were my signature.

They set me apart from Rosalie—it was my one thing, and it was my safe thing because Rosalie would _never_ fuck a drummer. She rarely ventured far from the string family. And definitely never any brass. But drummers? She felt like they were unruly and pagan, not refined like a nice viola or dignified like the French horn. She had _standards_.

Can the scarred and imperfect set standards?

She insisted my color was yellow, so I wore it, even though I feel I'm partial to pink—but pink is _hers_.

She said Louboutins were more "Alice" than Manolos—so I got rid of my extensive Manolo collection.

She said Imported was good and fine, but this year, it was all about patriotism, so I had to ditch the Porsche and went with one of those Chevy Hybrid thingies. She had rolled her eyes and said, "Gees, Al. Don't take it overboard. We're not going green, for chrissakes." But then she had turned around and started the Forks Protects Its Woods Club.

But drummers.

I would never give that up.

I thought of Rosalie's scratched face and went to my closet, stepped inside and went to the back rack and scanned until I found my baby pink cashmere sweater. It still had the tag pinned with a tiny gold safety pin in the armpit.

I grabbed it and put on the front rack, unpinning the all-French Dior tags. Now when mother asked if I was enjoying her gifts, I wouldn't have to lie.

I was going to start wearing pink again.

I flopped on my bed and contemplated the age-old question of saline versus silicone. Graduation was coming quickly. and that meant that I had to decide on a gift from Daddy—quick.

Bored, I flipped on my stereo and—ooh.

Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Chad Smith.

Not the best looking lay in the world but enthusiastic and innovative, much like his music.

I busted out some Pilates so as to look tight for the Porpoise thing—I haven't been surviving on okra all week for nothing.

iTunes spit out one of the mp3s Jasper was always sending me. _Ooh, I love this song. Hmm. They in town?_ I swayed in time, my neck tossing around. I'd have to get this out of my system because I saw the easy listening jazzy crap band Margeaux had hired for the gala; I wasn't opposed to guys over forty, but Rosalie insisted that I keep it restricted to no more than twice my age, unless, of course, they had had at least one top forty hit, Billboard or otherwise.

I was just starting to sweat, which by rule I don't allow myself to do, when I heard my door open behind me.

"Careful, Midget, you'll break a nail."

I smiled and let my breath catch, because you should never let a boy see you out of breath; Rosalie taught me that back in the sixth grade.

"Midget? Ew," I said, turning to face Jasper.

He was possibly the best-looking guy at school, even better than Edward… too bad he dressed like one of those shelter people that Santa Clauses collect money for at Christmastime.

"Gnome?"

"That's insulting."

I was glad to see Jasper. He was always so refreshing with his hillbilly clothes and strange opinions on things like music and something called Darfur, which I'm fairly certain is a band…whatever a Darfur is, it doesn't make Jasper happy, so I refrain from conversations when he goes off about it.

"Leprechaun?"

"Don't be gross. I'm petite, not diseased."

He opened his mouth, but then didn't say anything, and just shook his head.

Silly Jasper.

"Oh, Jasper. Nathan Followill. That's this band, right? I need to find out if they're-"

"Forget it, Person of Diminuitive Size. Kingsa Leon's been here and back. You missed out. I told you to listen to me about music. This shit's so gold that I'm already over it. Try these instead."

He threw some C.D.'s on my bed, which delighted me because I was always looking for new drummers.

"Anything good?" I asked.

"Yeah, the one on top of the stack is my new fav—"

"How's the drummer?"

Jasper didn't say anything. He harbored something against all drummers, which was just ridiculous, because what the hell did any of them ever—

"Alice. Why did you agree to that bet with Edward and Rosalie?" he asked, which was odd. He'd never asked about a bet before, we bet all the time.

"It was just another bet…you know you can't wear that chain thing to the porpoises, right?" I asked, leaning over to yank on it. "Why do you wear this thing, anyway? It's kind of creepy. It reminds me of-"

"Alice. Why did you make that damned bet?"

Sheesh.

He sure was pissy today. And one-track minded.

"We were bored and she was new," I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest. "Just because you happen to be best friends with the new girl—"

"You liked her, too. You threw a damn party for her—"

"Stop. I'd throw a party for any damn reason. And God, I didn't know her when I made that bet—"

"But still. You still were out to hurt someone. And you were still willing to fuck Edward—"

"I know. And I know it goes against my drummer rule, because he's piano, not drums. But I figured for the sake of the bet… besides, Mrs. Willoughby- you remember my old Nanny- she said that there's like, these hammers that pound on the strings when you press on the keys, and that's basically how a snare drum—"

"God. Alice. Listen to yourself."

I thought over my last few words, and… hmmm. I wasn't seeing the issue.

"You don't have a problem with hurting someone you don't even know? You don't have a problem with wagering pussy? You don't have—"

"Right. I don't need you to come in here and get all heavy-like on me before the porpoise thing. I need to look radiant, so shut up."

"Alice. When are you gonna stand alone?"

"Huh?"

"I just…keep thinking you will…but hell. I could be wrong and just missing out on everything else."

I had no clue what he was talking about—but then again, I usually didn't. This could be about this Darfur business again, so I smiled and nodded like I always do and then all of the sudden it looked like he wanted me to say something to him, like he was looking at me for some kind of answer or something. Or maybe I had something in my- oh, God. I swiped my tongue over my teeth, but then I remembered I hadn't eaten since this morning when I had gnawed on that organic Italian parsley Aunt Sabbi was attempting to grow; there's no way it was still floating around in there. Uck.

I noticed he was still peering at me intently, and I had already forgotten what we had been arguing about. Darfur?

"Um, right. Is there something you wanted, or…"

"I'm just trying to sort my shit out."

"Oh. Well. I can help. Lose the chain and go with silver cufflinks. I know you couldn't get into Miss Mimi's, what with the attack, so your best bet is to go with a Hugo Boss. The lines are much cleaner than-"

"Yiggity yo, brah," Emmett boomed, swinging in the room. He did that obnoxious thing that he called the "panty-dropper" in which he hung off the top of the door frame.

"Emmett, cut it out. You know how your mother feels about the destruction of her house." I turned back to my vanity, selecting a nice pixi eye crayon (that I did not buy from fucking Target, but had to have special ordered and delivered from the UK) in plum to line with; I could see Emmett punch Jasper in the shoulder.

"That might've hurt if you hadn't socked your eff bee in her pert little mouth," Jasper drawled, still staring at my reflection in the mirror. Emmett grumbled something about Blaine-induced Bling withdrawal, but I was distracted by Jasper's intensity. I could feel it sometimes, and it was always in those moments that I dearly wished the boy would quit being so pig-headed and drop the damned guitar.

"We good, Jas?" I asked, opening my mouth wide as I lined my lower lids. I blinked a few times and looked up at him expectantly. He shook his head slightly and slapped Emmett in the arm.

"I think I'm sorted. Thanks," he sighed, then walked out.

Silly Jasper.

I looked down at my bare feet—what did he mean stand alone?

I studied the pale yellow polish Rosalie helped me pick out at last week's pedicure appointment…they'd look much cuter in pink.

I picked up one foot and wiggled my adorable toes.

Silly, cryptic Jasper…

I _was_ standing on my own…wasn't I?


	5. Chapter 5

**Emmett**

T-minus four hours until the motherfucking porpoises.

My shit is pressed, my face is baby smooth like the ladies like it, I'm smelling old school fresh with Cool Water—because really, that shit will never get old.

There will sho' 'nuff be Cristal on ice…now the only thing left to see to was ice on myself.

I grabbed the keys to my ride after I ran into Jasper hanging out in Alice's room.

If he wasn't such a pussy, he'd tap that shit before the porpoise thing—but he can't be like that so he won't.

Unlike me, who will mos def get skins before this charity Save the Porpoises bullshit.

I adjusted the bass on the Alpines and pulled outta the drive, feeling sorry for Whitlock and Cullen.

My boys.

I had mad love for my boys—and shit—everyone knows the greats- the history makers come in groups.

Wu-Tang.

NWA.

Color Me Badd.

Too bad both my boys got tripped up in the game. Those playas let the game get 'em. For real.

I pulled out my drive and headed to the Hale estate…two birds with one stone and all that shit…

Rosalie had a badass pair of three-carat canary diamond earrings—I needed one for my ear so I looked smooth for the porpoises—and I wanted hit it in her Bentley, the way we do before these kinds of things.

Thing about Rosalie Hale is she is everything that turns my shit on.

She's a scandalous ho who likes to get her rocks off, she knows her bling and flosses like no one's business, she plays the game like no other chicks and she can't be trusted for shit.

She's like me, only with T and A.

I pulled into the H-wielding gates and grinned at her black Bentley, freshly waxed and looking sharp as hell.

I couldn't wait to feel the leather under my knees.

I just had to talk a smooth enough game to get her over the fact that I jacked her grill a few hours ago.

I ain't no bitch. I own up to my shit, but that was straight up _not_ my fault.

I'd need some help, though, because Rosalie's face was important to Rosalie and she could hold a grudge.

I reluctantly sat up outta my gangsta lean and reached over to open my glove box and fumbled around.

Hmm.

I pulled out a white lace thong and gave it a quick sniff.

Ahh. Lizzie. She lives out in Delaware, I think. I fucked her in the Rover last year when Blaine decided taking me to Delaware with Mitzi Stanley would surely make it look like they weren't having a shady affair.

That ho could fuck to the rhythm of Nas.

Not as easy as it sounds…what a great piece of ass…

I took another sniff and tossed the La Perlas back in the glove box.

Fumble.

Fumble.

Ahh.

I pulled out my Jodeci-filled iPod.

Because I don't care what kind of shit fools talk about Jodeci—Jodeci drops panties. Guaranteed.

I hopped out and the bass cut off immediately—I bid farewell to KRS-One and stuffed Jodeci in my pocket.

Ana Spanishsomething answered the door and I had to give mad props to Chip. She was a fine-ass mix of latte and spice.

"Miss Rosalie is in her room. Be careful, she's pissed," Ana said, and I resisted the urge to play grab ass with the help.

We both heard the uppity clack of money on the marble floor and Ana Spanish's eyes closed.

"She didn't hear you," I whispered, then waved hello to the queen bitch herself, who was coming at me something fierce.

Ana took off with a quickness and I tried to show indifference at Rosalie's face…but daaaang.

She looked hit.

"'Sup, baby girl?"

"Don't give me that shit, Snow—"

"Easy, princess. Don't test my patience. Psssh. Snow."

I could put up with a lot of shit from Rosalie, but her referring to me as the biggest blundering embarrassment fuck-up in rap history—shoot.

I don't think so.

"Respect," I said, jutting my chin at her.

She sighed and pulled on my hand, dragging me out to the porch, and I was kinda surprised she was going out in public with her mug all gashed up like that.

Her ass still looked good, though.

She quietly shut the door behind her and then kind of bowed her head, and her hair was kind of in her face and then, I felt bad for Rosie.

She was hiding her face.

"Get that shit outta your face," I said, pushing her hair out of the way.

"This is your fault," she said, all hostile and shit.

"Hold up, honey. I was trying to stop her. I was set up—she played me, too. You think I'd ever do anything to fuck up the prettiest face up in here? I wouldn't," I said, trying to find somewhere on her face to touch. I had to settle for her forehead.

The quickest route to between Rosalie's legs was her vanity.

"You're still the best looking trick—don't sweat this shit."

"I know what you're here for," she said, cutting through my bullshit.

And that's why Rosalie Hale is better than the rest of the high maintenance bitches—I don't even have to waste time spitting game.

"That's why I like you so much, Rosie. Together, we don't front. I want the canary ear piece and the Hale piece in the Bentley."

"I need a plastic surgeon, not a sweaty fuck in my freshly washed car, thanks."

"Shit. Suit yourself, but, uh, it might be awhile if you hold out for someone else," I said, gesturing at her face—_always_ play the vanity card.

She shrieked out this tiny raging noise and I knew I was a lock-in for the Bentley.

"Chill out. I'm just saying…" I shrugged.

"Look, Van Winkle, I can get laid whenever and wherever I please—are we clear?"

"Yes Ma'am," I grinned. "I'm well aware. We've been creepin' for the better part of four years now."

"It's not creeping if it's not a secret, idiot," she said, crossing her arms over her pink fuzzy sweater. It looked soft.

Her tig ole bitties looked softer.

"And it stops if I see or hear of you sniffing around Isabella Swan again."

That caught my attention.

Rules?

Jigga wha?

"Don't hate the playa, playa, hate the game."

"Look, Emmett, let me try to say this in your language, so you understand. Imma get mine, you can get yours, and we can hook it up like we do, but if you put any hard or moist part of your body on, in, or near that particular skanky piece of ass, my legs are permanently locked to you. Fo' shizzle. Got it?"

"Are you trying to put me on lock down?" I asked, fucking incredulous.

"Nope. Have your fun. Get your fuck on, whatever it is you do…just stay away from Swan. She's dirt and I won't be tainted."

"She's a down chick, you just—"

Rosalie's eyes get all narrowed and if she packed heat, she would have put a cap in my ass in that second.

"Fine. I'll keep my hands outta the Swan skirt."

"Good," Rosalie said, then she grabbed my junk. "Now come show me how pretty you still think I am."

She started to pull me inside, but no.

"Drop top," I said, jerking my head toward the Bentley.

"Fine. Margeaux has a migraine, anyway. She'd flip if we got too loud."

Backseat.

Butterscotch leather.

_Freek'n You_ on the stereo.

Rosie, bare ass up in front of me.

My drawers down to my knees.

If there was a forty of Colt 45 in my hand, a blunt behind my ear, and Tupac with a Halo in the front seat, I swear I'd be in heaven for a G.

I grabbed on to her right hip and leaned over so my chest pressed into her back and my mouth was right up on her ear.

"Ready?"

She made the same noise she always makes, and I smiled, because this was the only way to render Rosalie Hale speechless…and I could do it every time.

I grabbed on to the Oh Shit Handle on the ceiling of the car, slipped in her pussy with a grunt and started to fuck.

She backed her ass up into me so I pushed harder. We were always trying to best the other.

I usually won.

I'm stronger and shit, but even when she gave up, she still won.

I took my hand from her hip and reached around to grab on to a bouncing titty—and it suddenly occurred to me I had unfinished business with her.

"Your bet," I gasped, squeezing tight on her boob.

"Uhhh."

"You plan…ahhhh gah…fucking Cullen?"

"Ah…yeah…he…won."

I gripped harder on to the handle and fucked harder.

"Put your ass…higher…"

She did and my cock found another inch up in her and her blonde head flung back like I knew it would.

I knew Rosalie fucked other people.

I fucked other people.

We did this for the sport.

But I never actually had a name for another dick who would be here.

I didn't like it, but I couldn't tell her not to pay up on her losses—that shit just isn't copacetic.

Why in the name of Big Pun did I suddenly give a fuck?

"Are you…gonna give up…other cock…when I frost that finger someday?" I panted—because shit—we both always knew that's how we'd end up anyway.

There was no drama for me and Rosie—ever.

We both enjoyed trips to Aspen and trips to Jacob the Jeweler. We both understood the game and didn't front about shit—we just had to iron out the kinks.

"Like…you won't…be banging…your secretary?"

"We'll work it out…later."

"Ahhh…"

I yanked my hand out from her sweater and without hesitating smacked her ass hard enough to leave an Emmett print on her right cheek.

She squealed, because she liked that shit, but that's not why I did it.

I did it so Cullen or anyone else who would tap that ass would see my hand there first.

Rosie started squirming and clawing at the leather and I knew she was gonna come—so I pulled out.

She knew better.

"Emmett—"

"Come on, Boo, say it."

"Give it back," she whined and her ass backed up.

"Say it for me."

"Big Poppa…give it to me, Big Poppa…"

I grinned and pushed back in—

Ice Cube was right.

Damn _straight_ it was a good day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Rob, we're gonna smoke you out.**

**And not as in pot or pole. We're just… gonna smoke you out.**

**ETA: we're not against those, either.**

**Jasper**

"My Pops wasn't fucking thrilled with the odds. He wants bookie's bets by noon," Emmett said, pushing his empty plate away.

I stared out the greasy Lodge window and actually had to squint; it was just dawn and the fucking sun wouldn't leave me alone.

I nodded absently. Blaine McCarty wanted the bets so he could decide if he wanted his fighter to throw the match.

It bothered me.

Because I may be apprenticing for illegal booking, but honor among thieves and all that shit, right?

Where's the honor in straight up stealing?

Not my style.

I'd keep my business to myself, Blaine.

"French toast is delicious. That shit is underrated," Emmett said, slouching into the booth.

We came to the Lodge for breakfast after porpoises and after we dropped Rosalie off, because Rosalie doesn't come to the Lodge…and then there was Alice.

Alice was gone by the time I got back from my delivery of one La Bella Swan to my boy Cullen.

I fucked around with the cellophane that my toothpick had come in and hoped the two hadn't broken up already.

Cullen better keep his shit straight…I had faith in the bastard, but I could only push La Bella so many times before she told me to blow myself.

Emmett leaned back, put his hand over the red-and-white No Smoking sign and lit a cigarette and I dialed Bella's phone because I didn't want to think about my own shitty, lame unrequited love story and I'd feel like shit if she was at that lake alone.

"Jasper," Edward answered, and he was either brushing his teeth or otherwise orally occupied.

"Cullen," I said, as Emmett blew smoke rings to the ceiling. "She okay?"

"She's better than okay," Edward said, sounding pretty fucking satisfied with himself—thank God.

"Good…if she shows up crying to me again, I won't plead your case. Keep your shit together."

"I sincerely hope that wasn't a threat."

"Never. Go see to her happiness now," I sighed.

"Later," he said, and I hung up and shook my head at Emmett's grin.

"He's got the world swinging from his nuts…he's just gonna give up the game for one trick? What the hell is he doing?" Emmett asked rhetorically.

"Psssh…I hope he knows," I said, swiping Emmett's Zippo from the center of the table.

"Shoot. Cullen is a hustla at heart. You can't change that shit."

Emmett was wrong, but I didn't bother arguing.

"When was the last time you got your dick wet, Whitlock?"

"Two weeks ago. Some sophomore. Why?"

"You're acting like a bigger pussy than usual."

I shrugged.

I was.

"Why don't you do us all a favor, call Brandon, and hit that shit already, Playa?"

"Eh."

"Tap that ass so you can be over it."

"What if I wouldn't be over it?" I asked. For the first time, actually _out loud_, I asked quite possibly the last person in the world I should have asked.

The truth was, I could most definitely bed Alice Brandon.

A few Lemon Drops, some smooth banter and a couple of lines about Keith Moon and I'd be sitting right pretty between her thighs.

The problem was, it would probably leave me worse off.

I'd make slow love to Alice and then…fuck.

I'd never want to leave those thighs…and I'd have to, because Foo Fighters is supposed to play a show in Seattle next month.

I ignored Emmett while he laughed at me and stubbed his cigarette out.

"You in?" I sighed, changing the subject back to the fight.

"Obviously, yo. I got cheddah on it." Emmett nodded once then leaned in with a sober look on his hung over face. "Look, Dogg, you're not that different. I've been knowing you since Pampers. We both know how to get what we want. You want the Brandon piece, have it. I've seen you run game. You can."

"I don't want to play her into bed, Em."

"Shit, I bullshit Rosalie into bed all the time. Don't mean she's not gonna be my wifey some day. You underestimate these hoes. They creep, too."

"If I fuck Alice, I want that shit to be legit—"

"Whoa. Hold up, Bro. You think I'm not straight-up fucking honest with Rosalie? I am. She knows what's up. Probably better than I do."

"And that's cool for you two…and the rest of our peers, but I dunno…I'mma want more than a quick fuck in a Bentley."

"First off, don't knock that shit 'til you try it. And secondly, the way I see it? You got two options. One: you could fucking spit it out…"

"Negative. What else you got?"

"Two: go home and jack off in your tears, bitch."

I lit the Zippo and lazily ran a fingertip through the low, blue flame.

Didn't hurt, but I hadn't expected it to.

I let my calloused finger float just above the top of the flame, and that shit hurt…bad.

Hmmm.

Diving right in, not so bad.

Hovering and doing nothing, bad.

Seems tonight was a night of revelations.

"What's the most whack thing that could happen? She'd tell you to fuck off. Then you'd know."

I flinched…because that's not the worst thing that could happen, and for such a dumb fuck, Emmett decided now would be the perfect time to be perceptive.

"Okay, punkscum, what's your beef?"

"What if I get her…and she's…"

"What? Still an idiot?"

I didn't say anything because…well, yes.

Now that I was on the edge of actually doing something…what if I was wrong? What if she was…exactly what she pretended to be?

"You arrogant mother," Emmett said, his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed. "You ain't perfect, either Whitlock. Quit projecting your pretentious shit onto other people. No one will ever live up to it."

I.

What?

"Psssh…_I'm_ not the judgmental asshole in our social circle," I said.

"Sure ya ain't," Emmett said rather patronizingly and my phone rang before I could take proper offense.

I flipped it open without checking the caller I.D.—_never_ fucking do that, by the way.

"Yeah," I said, and my voice was hoarse for no reason at all.

"Jas? Hey, it's Alice…So, I'm in Seattle at the Hilton and--"

"Can't you call Edward?" I asked, because I knew this one like the back of my hand and I might love the lady, but she exhausted me with this shit.

"I did. He told me to fuck off. So rude! This whole bet thing is really bothering him. Anyway, I didn't want to call you because I know you get pissy, but I really need a ride and Rosalie took four Ambiens to forget her scarring so she can't and Matt's tour bus had an early call—"

"Matt…" I said slowly, trying to decipher what band her latest conquest hailed from.

"Flynn," Alice huffed impatiently, which was really fucking crass, considering she was calling at the ass crack of dawn, looking for a ride.

Matt Flynn…Matt Flynn…

Hell.

"Standards, Alice."

"I didn't even touch him. I miss Ryan Dusick. It's just not the same…" I might've been on the phone, but I could just see her lips pursing and her eyes glossing off into the distance as she mused and pondered and daydreamed. My eyes shut briefly; not in pain, not in annoyance. Just… in Alice-induced exasperation. Must be Sunday morning. "Look. Are you coming or not?"

Of course I was.

"Of course, Alice." Alice didn't hear my sigh. Emmett didn't hear my sigh. But he still acknowledged it as he tipped his orange juice down his throat and shoveled a big mouthful of French toast down his throat.

"Go on then, Son," Emmett said, not looking at me, but rather the tight ass of our fortyish-something waitress. "Yo, Wendy. Can a brothah get some Tobasco up in here?" Waitress Wendy turned her neck and looked over her shoulder , winking a fake eyelash at us. She swiped a little red bottle from the dude in flannel at the counter who was probably coming off a long night shift at a lumber yard or something.

She came swaying back to our table, adding a little hippy shake as she presented the Tobasco to Emmett.

"How 'bout you, Lash LaRue?"

My eyes beamed in approval.

"No thanks, Doll. I gotta get movin'. Em, you need a ride?

"Just found one," Emmett grinned, grabbing Wendy's hand, flipping it over, and tracing the lines back and forth. She leaned forward and he whispered in her ear, making her giggle and squirm.

I'd say he was a smooth operator if I hadn't been the one to show him that particular maneuver.

Whatever. My lady was waiting.

**Alice**

I waited outside for Jasper because I am a morning person. There's something about a new day that makes me happy…unfortunately, it probably wouldn't last long because in my time of need, I was forced to call Jasper.

Ick.

He was so cranky whenever I called him for a post-coital ride home. He really knew how to bring a sex buzz down. Unlike Edward… who actually told me to fuck off this time.

And after being kind of insulted, I actually felt kind of bad…I mean, he's super upset about this bet nonsense, but whatever…he agreed to it.

Not my fault he actually developed feelings for Isabella Swan.

If I'd have seen that coming, I wouldn't have made the bet—I'm all about romance and love—it's just, I hadn't realized Edward was capable of that at all…really.

I can't be blamed.

Besides, I had more important things to worry about.

Like the fact that despite the sunshine it was cold out here, and I briefly lamented the rise and fall of the pashmina…

Like the fact that I just shied away from my most favorite signature activity.

In my defense, Maroon 5 sucks and like I told Jasper, Matt Flynn is no Ryan Dusick.

But still…it probably wouldn't have stopped me a few weeks ago…or even a few days ago. But when I was there with Flynn, he said something about, well—me.

Okay, it wasn't the first time an expert percussionist mentioned he'd heard of me through one of his peers, and normally, those kinds of accolades thrilled me…

But all of this business with Rosalie has my head spinning a bit. Like a record, baby. I usually shunned poppy covers of poppy 80s tunes, but that Flo Rida just knew his stuff. I made Emmett crack up by putting it on and dancing around, but Rosalie had told me she'd have none of that in any pep rally of hers; she'd just have to deal with it. She was ASB President, not Captain of the Cheer Squad. I'd make my own decisions regarding musical choice, thanks.

Boy, was she going to be pissed, but whatever, dude. She probably wouldn't make it to the rally anyway; I could just envision her making up lame excuses about building designs for Habitat for Humanity and organizing a coat drive for that hobo charity thing or this or that or then, but I'd know she just didn't want anyone to see the patchy bulge of expertly applied concealer under a layer of Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer. Heavens, no.

And just like that, I decided Flo Rida was in. I mean, even if she showed up…

I sighed and shifted, wondering what the heck could be taking Jas so long. And a split second after making my snap decision, I knew that I would end up changing the song, Rosalie or no. She called the shots, even when she was all Phantom of the Opera.

I mean, she's the gorgeous, ruthless one and I'm the conniving, disguised-in-sweet cute one, but I'm not an idiot and I do know everyone thinks I'm Rosalie's pekignese…but if Rosalie isn't the prettiest anymore, if Rosalie got humiliated, if Rosalie got her ass handed to her by the Swan girl…where does that leave little Alice Brandon?

For the first time ever, a notch above Rosalie on the social ladder, that's where. Which is really very nice and all…but drummers.

Okay.

I adore them.

They're sexy and maybe a bit insane and creative and they tend to have good hair—I just… adore them.

But, well- drummers are what I do to stand apart.

I don't fuck high school boys or college boys like Rosalie does—for awhile, drummers were just what I did so people would know, so that people would see…I'm different.

Besides, Rosalie said I needed a signature, and my 'dyke spike' wasn't cutting it.

So…drummers worked.

But then Jasper said all of that nonsensical stuff in my room that upon further pondering had me wondering if it wasn't so nonsensical after all.

"When are you gonna stand alone, Alice?" he had asked me.

And then by the time Flynn started saying he heard I was, well, into drummers…

I mean.

Is that who I am?

Alice with short hair who actively sycophants for Rosalie Hale and has been known to fuck a drummer or two?

Because sophomore year, that was a nice title…but I'm fairly certain that I'm ready now.

To stand on my own, that is.

Small problem, however; if I'm not the aforementioned Alice… then who the hell am I?

I was probably a creative type, and I know fashion…and music.

I love Rosalie, I do, but…I don't even know if I'm a Valentino or an YSL (RIP, Homie, as Emmett would say. YSL was the Dre to my Kurupt. And fuck… I hang out with my cousin way too much). Rosalie puts her final stamp of approval on everything…and I'm not sure what I like or don't anymore. Whether I bought this oversized clamshell quilted clutch because I liked the color or because Rose had wordlessly handed it to me the last time we were in Seattle.

I heard Jasper's GTO before I even saw it. So silly with that loud car…but Jasper didn't care.

Jasper doesn't care what anyone says, ever…when Edward or Emmett make fun of his wardrobe he doesn't ever appear ruffled by it.

Jasper.

Jasper just might be able to help me.

**Jasper**

I tossed my phone in the console after making a few "gentlemen, place your bets" calls and then I pulled up in the Hilton lot, and I didn't even have to look around to spot her.

She looked small and cold, standing out there…and not the least bit post-coital, which I have to admit made me smile.

I watched her kind of twirl herself then smile up at the sky, at absolutely nothing, and like so many times before, I just wanted to know what the hell she was thinking.

My shoulders relaxed and I pulled the car to a stop, relieved she wouldn't stink up my car and break my heart with the salt of yet another drummer .

She bounced in the car and I got that unexplainable warm rush she gives me, that kind of warm I only got from two things: gin and Alice.

"So…Flynn left prematurely?" I asked, staring her in the pretty eye.

I'm here, though.

I'm always here.

"Eh. I'm okay with it," Alice said, bright and effervescent and annoying.

I have strong suspicions about my beloved harboring a secret coke addiction.

"Jasper, I want to be original and I want you to help me," she sparkled out at me, her eyes all lit up like Christmas and her tiny little shoulders raised in excitement.

"What?"

"Help me. I want to…not be Rosalie's puppy. And I don't want to just be the girl that fucks drummers. And I want to wear pink again, and I'm even thinking about buying some Blahniks, but Rosalie might be right about the LaBoutins, but no matter. The point is, I don't know. I don't know what I should like and maybe yellow is more my color but—"

"Alice. Alice, I don't know shit about shoes or complimentary colors—"

"Don't be silly, Jasper. I just want you to teach me how to be more original. More like you," she shrugged.

I laughed because…

"Alice, don't you feel like it's a bit of a contradiction? You want to be original…just like me?"

Her little brow furrowed and she thought hard for a second and I didn't try to hide my snickering.

God, she makes me laugh. Not necessarily with her so much as at her.

"Okay. No. I don't want a loud car and I don't want to wear that ugly chain or anything like that…I just…I just want to know how to not give a fuck about the judgmental and malicious opinions of others," she said proudly, her chin rising.

I almost drove off the road.

The hell was this about?

God?

Are you actually handing me divine intervention?

"Well, little Alice, I think that's a very good idea."

"I knew you would! And I want us to hang out, I want to watch you just be you and maybe we could shop and listen to music and I can just spend all kinds of time just figuring myself out and Rosalie will probably be really mad, but whatever, the disfigured can't really afford to lose friends, can they? And-"

"Ahhh. So you're off your leash. I see," I said, and her revelation suddenly made a heck of a lot more sense…

And something occurred to me.

This could be the key to that Alice…the one I see glimpses of…the one I just know is in there…

As it turns out, on this morning Alice and I are both interested in the same thing…finding out who the hell Alice really is…

Luck, you are my fine lady on this glorious morning. I should go drop another dime on my man for next weekend because the spread was just lookin' fucking good. For both the fight and the Alice.

"So, will you let me? Let me shadow you! Oh, we could have fun, Jasper and just think of—"

"I'll do it," I said.

Because I'm either crazy or just crazy for Alice, but either way, the fuck do I have to lose?

She made a really annoying noise and threw her arms around my neck and then, because she's excitable and prone to exaggeration…Alice innocently planted her lips on mine.

I pushed her off harder than I should have and mumbled something about driving.

She just kept talking and I tried to look like I wasn't dying.

But my mind was spinning and my dick was swelling and I wished she'd shut up so I could collect myself and then my phone rang.

Emmett.

"Gimme those numbas, bitch. Pops is making plans."

"I…" am never speechless.

I glanced over at Alice, who had one hand hanging out of my window while she sang under her breath. I think it was that synth pop 80s shit by… the fuck was their name? Dead or Alive. Divine intervention again? Alice definitely spins my head right 'round.

I have already slipped into her farther than I should have.

I'm already more desperate for her than is acceptable.

And I'm going with it.

"I can't do it this weekend. There's another fight next weekend—"

"What up with this bullshit? Don't be a bitch."

"Next weekend," I said, my eyes still on Alice…

Because I had a feeling that for once, a weekend up in Forks was gonna be better than a weekend in Vegas.


	7. Chapter 7

**For Rob.**

**And hold on to yer panties, everyone. Scotch is a-comin'.**

**Jasper**

"I could go silicone…I mean, the FDA _did_ put them back on the market, but…I don't know. Saline just seems so 2001. And, God, I want to look more Jessica Simpson than Pamela Anderson, so maybe saline would be…"

And I tuned her out and kept strumming my six string.

We were on my porch; my sanctuary, my outdoor haven for gin consumption and music making and now- Alice companionship.

She was flipping through the pages of Italian _Vogue_, tsking and humming approval and talking incessantly.

Alice Brandon doesn't shut up.

Day Three of finding Alice's soul.

She was driving me crazy for more reasons than I would've imagined possible.

She's always moving-- the girl cannot sit still.

She changes outfits three times a day.

She will not shut up.

I'm annoyed and I think I might be becoming shallower with each passing second.

Now here's where the crazy comes in.

Every manic, spasmic move her little body makes startles me and mesmerizes me.

I smile when I have to riffle through the clothes she's left in my closet.

When she stops talking to take a breath, I find myself holding my breath, too, just waiting to see what's gonna come out of her over-glossed mouth next.

Usually it's something absolutely ridiculous or just straight up garbage…but then sometimes, it's not.

And right when I'm ready to usher her ass outta my way and outta my house and outta my chest, right when I think she's quite possibly the loudest, most self-absorbed little tool to ever live…I have to remind myself that I'm not supposed to be molding her to suit me.

I'm supposed to just…let Alice be Alice.

"I don't know, maybe I'm just bored…" Alice was saying, and my ears perked up and I leaned in a bit closer, because I'd noticed a pattern.

When Alice claimed boredom, Alice intrigued me.

"If you could pick any band or artist, dead or alive, to see, like, perform- who would you pick?" she asked, and she let one finger strum down the strings of the guitar.

"Who would you pick?" I asked, and like an asshole, my spine tingled.

Lady Music is my turn on—that shit's like _Penthouse_ to me.

Alice closed her eyes lightly and thought, and I stared at her like I was waiting for a bong hit or the second coming.

I expected Keith Moon, Ringo Starr, Tommy Lee—

"Nina Simone," she said, opening her bright eyes and looking at me.

"Me too," I mumbled ,rocking a hard-on that'd rival the Diggler.

"Jasper?"

"Hmm?"

"Why haven't we ever fucked?"

I cocked my head harshly to the side and heard the singlular pop of my neck cracking.

For such a sweet thing, Alice could be murder sometimes.

"I'm not a drummer," I said, letting a smile do the deceiving for me.

"Very true."

"Why do you ask, Alice?"

"Because everyone knows I do drummers and most of the guys at school make it like, a mission to do me. To see if they can break the drummer pattern. But you? You just…never even tried."

"Nope."

I sure as heck haven't.

"Why?"

"Is that your number, Alice?" I asked, leaning back and letting the guitar rest between my knees. "Being a tease? Playing hard to get? You make yourself unattainable, in turn making you more desired?"

"No, it's not really—"

"I think it is. I think you attend a school full of people used to getting whatever they want, and you know it drives them crazy to not be able to have something, so you make it clear they can't have you. I think it's a way of getting attention directed toward yourself while you're stuck in the Rosalie Hale shadow and I think it's appalling."

Psssh.

Yeah. I said it.

And I probably even meant most of it, but fuck it, I was raised here too. And while spoiled ain't my bag, I'm not told "no" on a regular basis, and after years of not getting this girl…I was pent up.

I lolled my resting head to my right to look at Alice, to see the hurt in her eyes. I knew I'd immediately regret putting there.

But, uh…she looked more pissed than hurt.

"One- don't presume to make assumptions about my choice of past lays. You know _nothing_ on the subject. Two- you call me appalling for being selective? If I had sex with guys at our school, I'm sure you'd find a way to twist that in to something appalling as well…because you, Jasper Whitlock, are the most judgmental bastard in this place. And everybody knows it."

"Pardon me?" I asked, sitting up.

What's this?

Alice Brandon has an actual opinion about me?

About anything?

"You. You walk around in your strange clothes and drive your loud car and listen to pretentious shit no one has ever heard of and you cast judgment on anyone who enjoys anything you consider mainstream, because that's your way of garnering attention. So look in the damn mirror before you put your shitty, narrow -minded judgments on me. And for the record, I don't do percussionists for the sake of being a tease or to get attention. I do it because, well- they're hot. And I do it because it does set me apart from the rest of the girls at school and I do it because the alternative would be sleeping with you or any of the other slutty boys at the academy that use girls for sex. Ultimately, Jasper, you do your thing to be set apart and so do I. So, remind me again why it's so wrong for me."

"I'm not slutty," was my response.

I took offense to that.

I'm a gentleman.

"Yes, you are. Of course you are. I'm not blind, Jasper. In case you hadn't noticed, I happen to be a social butterfly. I know who everyone fucks. Case in point, last croquet match…you and two underclassmen."

"There was no intercourse."

It was, however, one of the most innovative handjobs I've ever had the pleasure of being part of.

"Semantics."

"Those girls know what's up. I treat every lady I woo with respect."

"What are their names?" Alice asked flatly, her arms crossing her chest.

I rolled my eyes and looked away.

I'm a jerk.

"See? Say what you will about me, but I'll sure as hell never be a nameless vagina to anyone at the Academy."

Ahhhh.

Alice fucks drummers for the sake of self-preservation and originality.

Something that's hers and not Rosalie's. Something that will never turn her into just one of those academy girls.

I stared at my hands and felt the thud of my heart.

She…challenged me.

Alice made me question _me_.

She got me upset and mouthy and, hell, she made me react.

But more than that, sister was just looking for something to set her apart and that shit is honorable.

Hah.

Alice Brandon.

I do, indeed, love you after all.

"Sorry," I shrugged and picked up my guitar and started in on a Matt Skiba cover.

"S'ok," Alice said, picking her magazine back up, and things were good again.

I rather liked this.

"I think this summer I'm going to forego natural sun and try an airbrushed tan."

I smiled and kept playing.

**Don't you just love these two?**


	8. Chapter 8

**We know, we know. Been a while. Here's an outtake that there was an apparent outcry for…**

**The next six outtakes are dedicated to some wonderful people who participated in the auction Support Stacie. You guys made jandco and wtvoc the highest-bid-upon authors for the entire auction! So, give a super fuckyeah to wolvesnvamps, the winning bid. She gets a private story that we're writing for her. It's going to be fantastic, yo. She also gets any updates a day in advance. LUCKY**

**Then there were some people who donated, even if they didn't win. Special shout outs to elleCC, mommyofboth/dhlk, kassiah, ferzhina, mcsmirkle, venjoss, and imjacksbrokenhart. You guys have such huge hearts that we're simply overwhelmed by all of this.**

**So… to celebrate kicking cancer's ass by raising a big fattie roll to the tune of $5200… have some Ginsper/La Bella action.**

**Thanks, ladies!**

**Please note: consider this an AU-**_**Scotch**_**. **

**Also… there's an LJ Community out there for those who enjoy fanfiction and/or have snide senses of humor. Links on the profile.**

**Sorry, one more- check out Music Sundays, the sister blog to the Lazy yet discerning Ficster. Run by our homie emibella. Worth it.**

**Bella**

"If this…if we work…Bella, I promise," he whispered feathers on my lips, "I promise I'll be so good."

I gave a shaky slight nod.

My chin tipped down and I raised myself so my hands were on his shoulders and he was sitting on the ground.

I hovered above him and he looked up at me, then tugged on the strings of my hood with one hand and used his thumb and forefinger to slide the toothpick out from the corner of his mouth.

My hands curled in his hair probably too tight, but suddenly he was the lifeline I was clinging to. He was gin and Jasper—guitars and smooth sense—and if I was honest with myself, the only person who ever really understood me in this place. He grabbed my waist and I was against him; he hummed a moment's indecision into my neck before I felt warm lips give in and softly kiss me once underneath my ear.

I sucked in a shocked breath at his kiss—should I be allowed this? After all that's happened—after how sure I was about Edward—could this actually be right?

Then his mouth slightly opened and all I felt was lips and tongue, warm and soft and everything I'd been looking for all wrapped up in my best friend, my confidante and my constant.

This was right.

"La Bella…can you look at me?" he whispered out hoarse and pleading, but I wasn't ready to back up off of him yet. My arms tightened around his neck and he kissed again, then sighed. "Bella. Bella, look at me," he said, jerking his head back so my grip on him broke.

I looked down at his eyes, a deep navy blue in the glow of the streetlights, and I couldn't help the ridiculous perma-grin spread on my face.

Jasper cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, letting his slow smile unfurl.

"Just making sure," he shrugged.

**Jasper**

As soon as I saw her eyes, I knew I wasn't alone in this business.

We'd both been sick kids over the wrong people—which was cool, that shit happens, and if it didn't, I'd have no basis. If I hadn't been stumbling around over Alice for all the wrong reasons, I'd never know how right La Bella felt.

And La Bella felt damn right.

She laughed, and not a dainty little giggle like Alice or a slow rumble like Rosalie—she laughed like a tone deaf hyena, loud and not-give-a-fuck and pssssh.

I should've known this from day one.

But I couldn't kick myself for being late to the party; adolescence is a bitch and good things come to those that wait and all that…

"Shhh," I said, my shoulders shaking in my own laughter.

"Why?" she said between cackles. "No one is out here, no one can hear, and even if they can, I don't care—"

"Because I want to kiss you now," I said.

"Oh. Okay."

Now, I've been kissing the ladies since teeter totters and slides. I taught Jessica Stanley and Lauren Mallory the art of lip versus tongue in our Spin the Bottle days, I've groomed my share of sophomores and I've pleased a few Ivy League dames—but nothing, and I mean not a damn _thing_ could have possibly prepared me for what it would be like to kiss my best girl.

Her lips were kind of puffy and I kissed the top one then the lower one and she shivered out a softer laugh. Our lips kind of pressed together and our smiles curved at the same time, matching and perfectly in sync.

It was quiet for a second; she wasn't breathing and I knew I sure as hell wasn't breathing. How the hell do you breathe when you're on the edge of everything, and you know it?

Friendships would be fucked.

My illusions of Alice would be diminished.

Eh.

My lips pressed firm and sure to hers, because I was ready to give up all that boyhood business—this wasn't about picking up the pieces of Edward's latest fuck-up or springing past Alice—it was about La Bella and me.

Getting it all wrong, but working on fixing it—starting now.

It was all tongues and fingers from there. We'd snapped into action, pulling and pushing at each other, grabbing and rubbing, looking to see what the other had to offer.

Her hips started rocking and grinding and I worked her neck while she made noises above me-then she felt all of what I had to offer her.

"Easy, easy," I said, pulling away from her neck and she looked down like she was going to gangsta stomp me.

"Jasper—"

"La Bella. We're in a street," I shrugged.

She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder.

"It's deserted," she said.

"Look, Peach, it ain't happening in a street."

"Why?"

I hadn't thought of that. I suppose I could've spouted some bullshit about respect or public decency laws—but I did respect her and she was right—it was deserted.

If she had been another Academy girl, I would have taken her to my house or her house or Emmett's house or hell—even the GTO. Because I would've had to make sure a random girl got some kind of revere or respect or something—because I'm a gentleman like that.

But well, there is freedom and equality when you actually do care for someone. If Bella and me want to make dirty love on the concrete, why the hell shouldn't we?

"Okay," I shrugged, and she beamed in excitement and triumph—and any girl who looked like she won the lotto when she actually won a side street lay was the right girl for me.

She yanked on the wallet chain and I lifted my ass a little 'til the wallet slid out.

Bella flipped it open between us and at the same time our fingers poked in the wallet.

"Thought so," Bella said as she plucked a rubber out between two fingers.

"Well."

Of course I carried rubbers in my wallet. I'm a hormone-guided misfit.

She palmed the condom in one hand and wrapped her arms around my neck, and in that moment I was a little sweeter, a little less jaded—more green and innocent than I'd ever given myself credit for.

And I loved her for showing me that.

For making me feel like a wondrous kid and a fucking Don Juan all at the same time—and that, World, is what love does.

Crazy, little thing, indeed.

She put her forehead to mine and we kissed softly over and over. With each peck, her arms tightened around my neck and my hands tightened on her sides. With each kiss, our hold became stronger and stronger still.

Bella pushed back on my shoulders and I hit the concrete with an audible oof.

"I guess I'll take bottom, La Bella," I grinned and let my hand rest on my chest.

She responded with a breathless laugh and held the condom up, letting it drop on my chest.

She shrugged out of my jacket, then her jacket and she was all braless and wifebeater and gritty beauty. The undeniable, painful, truthful kind—

The very kind I'd always hoped to find.

"Come on, Jasper," she whispered with a smile and nodded at the condom still lying on my chest…I'd been just staring for awhile.

I picked it up and brought it to my face so I could see it better, so I didn't do damage to it when I opened it.

La Bella put her hands just above my belt buckle then used her palms to push my shirt up to my chin. I ripped the foil open and she bent over and put her lips and her tongue to my chest, shoulder to shoulder.

My hand rested on the top of her head while she kissed and breathed hard—then her hips started to make circles and grind.

"La Bell—Okay, okay, it has to be now," I said, kind of nudging her lips off of me, because this just couldn't end with sticky tux pants.

I grabbed her hips and lifted them an inch off of me, trying to maintain my cool. She took the hint and scooted down to my thighs, then unzipped my pants.

"Get to business, Peach," I said, nodding at her jeans.

She lifted some more off of me and I fished the slimy rubber out and pulled myself out of my pants. I put my chin to my chest so I could see and grabbed on to myself and it felt so good, I may have jerked on it more than I should have.

"I can do that part," Bella said, with a half smile.

She had one pant leg off, and all of her underwear off and- oh.

Oh, La Bella is beautiful.

I bit hard on the inside of my cheek and rolled the condom on while she watched, not breathing or moving a muscle.

"Come here," I whispered out, but it sounded like a rasp.

I held both hands up with my elbows on the concrete and she put her palms to mine; then our fingers intertwined and she leaned forward.

Her hair fell over us and her lips fell to mine, and one of us was trembling, and I still ain't sure which one of us it was.

Our fingers tangled tighter and the backs of my hands scratched and burned in the gravel. I'd be scraped to hell.

Whatever.

My dick pressed against her warm thigh and she shifted, trying to line us up because neither of us were willing to let go of the other's hands…because when you're like this with your best friend, you want to hold hands. You're not just eager for the below-the-waist shit, you're eager for all of it.

She tried again and this time it worked, I was tip in and she breathed out just as I breathed in.

I raised my hips and she sat down and raised her head a little bit so we were eye to eye.

We were doing this.

Now, here is the funny part about lovemaking.

Crude as it sounds, pussy is pussy.

I'd like to say she felt physically different or tighter or more embracing—but all of that would be bullshit, because, well- pussy is pussy.

But.

There was a difference—the only difference that mattered—and though I'd had faith it existed, I had doubts.

This wasn't sex. This was making the love.

It wasn't in her pussy or in her grind—it was in our entwined fingers and it was in the stare between us.

Sex is the physical act of intercourse—

Making love is holding hands and sharing gin out of a Coleman and—

Hell.

Lovemaking was me and La Bella on a side street.

Her face dipped into my shoulder and she started to work her hips up and down, faster.

Our hands dragged over the cement so that they were over my head and she made a noise like a laugh and a sigh then kissed me.

And I kissed her back.

The pace picked up between me pushing and her bouncing and then I came.

After there were fingers and kisses and she came, too—

But the lovemaking wasn't over.

I knew it when she hovered above me, pulling her leg back into her pants and when I pinched the tip of the condom.

When she stood and I sat up, catching my breath and loving the shiver still lingering on my spine, I still knew it wasn't over.

I stood and our hands clasped back together and man…that love was still thick in the air.

We walked, taking turns to nip and pull at each other; sometimes we laughed and sometimes we whispered—but there were loud shouts and cackles, too.

And that was all still the love making.

And every time we'd hold hands, or listen to a good song together, or run barefoot in the grass or argue or do damn near anything together—it would be making more of this love.

**Gees, Jasper. **


	9. Chapter 9

**So yeah. Auction ladies, this one's for you.**

**Edward**

Nothing prepares you for this.

"They're perfect." The Good Doctor would know. I bet he was using some sort of generalized anthropomorphic guide to gauge the likelihood of their growth based off of Bella's imperfect measurements. At least that was the excuse he always gave me whenever he checked out her tits and ass.

"I can't wait to take them shopping." Mommy Number 7 had dropped out of FIDM the moment Carlisle proposed. She spent as much on one Fendi bag as I did on a week's supply of Macallan's.

"Dudes," Emmett said, waltzing in and draping a veiny arm around my neck. "You're fucked."

"Eighteen years until they're legal, Emmett," Rosalie crisply reminded him. She primly set a vase of blood-red roses (Bella was allergic and Rose knew it) on the wide windowsill of the room.

It had been the most harrowing seven months of my life. I looked like hell, but I knew I still had it since every nurse on the floor kept giving me sidelong glances.

Too bad for them. I had my hot piece of ass wife. Even if she had a lot of baby weight to shed.

Squealing and clacking alerted us to Alice's presence in the hallway.

"I'm here!" She was all tissue paper and South Beach Revisited procedurals and the new Miley Fragrance as she bustled in, chirping and cooing. Seven years had calmed her, but shit like this turned every woman into an unreasonable ball of baby fever.

Then the smell of Chanel and cigars settled over us as Mother and Renee floated in, arms linked with matching Dior sunglasses in place. They elbowed past Carlisle, and Mommy Number 7 had mysteriously vanished.

"Where're my babies?" Renee demanded. She smacked Emmett's ass and put her arm around his waist, bumping hips with him so he'd move over. Rosalie scowled at the two of them, but I was the only one who picked up on it.

I got a quick glimpse of the three clear, plastic cribs before my girls were again hidden from my view.

"Where'd they go? Make them come back! Are they gonna be okay?" Renee demanded. She was shaking Bella's arm and Emmett chuckled before whisking her off to the side. He looked over his shoulder and mouthed _fucked_ at me one more time, so I gave him the finger before turning down to make sure Bella was okay.

She looked utterly exhausted and peaked in the non-sex way; she looked amazing. Dark circles, pale and wan. Glowing eyes that had a shiny fervor I usually only saw when she was about to cross verbal swords with Rosalie or when Jasper had a new/old record or I came home sweaty wearing only scrub bottoms and a black 'beater. She sighed and held her hand up; I grabbed it before Alice or Jasper could call dibs.

"They'll be fine, Renee. They're tiny, but Carlisle and I will be on the NICU doc's ass night and day. They shouldn't've been down here, but well. No one says no to me. Not to my face, anyway," I explained, kissing Bell's sweaty forehead and feeling the salt of her sweat dry on my lips as I pulled back. She smiled weakly and I squeezed her hand. My girls were going to be fine. They'd damned well better be, with all the new Cullen money flowing through the new machines in the L&D unit here at the Forks Medical Center, fuck. The Good Doctor's first of many gifts to his heirs.

"You're naming one of them after me, right?" Alice looked up expectantly. So did Renee, Esme, and Colleen, who had just walked in, dragging Tal behind her. All of Fork's Finest were here to witness a miracle-

-Edward Cullen was going to raise _female_ triplets.

Girls.

Fuck me. Gently. With the entire Snap-On catalog's arsenal of power tools.

_Seventeen Years Later_

"No way." Absolutely not.

"Daddy. You overreact to _everything_."

"Yeah, Daddy. It's not like this is new for us."

"Come on, Edward. You and Mom probably pulled way worse shit when you were even younger than we are."

"Edward." I felt cool arms and the scent of Noxzema float into my nostrils, irritating me because it was so fucking calming. Years and years of cheap cold cream use had made me associate the smell with the Love of my life.

"I think you should let them go." Bella used her Edward manipulation voice, half-whispering into my ear. Cheater.

"Do you think it's wise to send your three hot and personable under-aged daughters to a foreign country for spring break when they could just as easily have cheap, drunken encounters here in the great state of Washington?"

"Do you really think having the house to ourselves for an entire week is a bad thing?"

My wife has a way with words. Must be that PhD in English Lit.

"Daddy, please?" Fucking ridiculous. Four females ganging up on me before I'd even read The_ Journal_ or had my Italian Roast. They were like a Greek chorus, judging me for my myopic view of spring break while simultaneously looking like the sweet babies I'd been spoiling since the day each had leveled me with their mother's eyes.

I snapped my paper open to the front page and pretended to be interested in the cost of textiles in Indonesia. Taking a scalding sip of my imported coffee, I let the burn color my voice as I responded to their appealing little pleas.

"I'll think about it."

I pretended to ignore the four of them smirking at each other.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Dude. You're fucked." Later that day, I found myself in Emmett's basement. He had found it incredibly amusing when he and Rosalie had purchased one of the old Masen properties outside of town that there was an unfinished room underneath the house. He had decided to make it "his" and furnished it to look like some throwback to seventies key parties. There was even a fucking Barcalounger, which of course Jasper had claimed as his years ago. I had threatened Emmett with telling Rose about Atlantic City Freshman Year of College if he went through on his plans to put in a fucking velvet Elvis painting, though. Fuck, Emmett. I liked tacky kitsch as much as the next guy, but Edward Cullen has his damned limits.

"Fuck you, Ludacris. You _and_ your adopted foreigner children."

"Hey, buddy. Just because my wife doesn't want to accommodate anything through her vadge except Biggie Smalls here, don't mean you gotta hate."

"Crimoney, Emm," Jasper called out from his chair. "Quit talking about Rosalie's parts. We have bigger, more important things to discuss."

"Such as?" I asked wearily. I leaned forward onto the Formica countertop, reaching out for the glass that Emmett was filling with three fingers full of Dewar's. I swigged the scotch and swiveled around on the cushy stool to face Jasper. He face looked exactly like his mother's did when she was thirty-five, minus the makeup and minimized laugh lines courtesy of La Mer and copious sunscreen applications. I shook my head to avoid studying Jasper's face for too long. The biggest fight Bell and I had back in College was when she got drunk and had rhapsodized about Jasper's luscious lips for an hour. Of course, the bastard had mocked me for getting jealous of his mouth for weeks after because Bella still, to this day, tells Jasper every fucking little thing.

I already knew what Jasper was going to say, anyway. Ever since the girls had turned twelve and started "developing", they had been the topic of every fucking conversation started in this here basement the moment I walked in the door. It had taken a pretty serious fist fight that had gotten Emmett a busted jaw and Jasper a chipped tooth before they realized that Edward Cullen was not fucking amused by people referring to the Cullen Triplets as "their ultimate fantasy".

"As long as you A-holes leave the girls out of it, I don't care what you talk about," I mumbled, draining my glass. Jasper chuckled into his gin & Seven-Up, rattling the ice cubes around before rubbing his gums with the tip of his finger, reminding me of those years when he decided coke would "take his guitar playing to a new level." Idiot.

"What are you bitching about now?" Emmett asked. I swiveled back around to face him, knowing he was looking for a reason to bring up the girls. They were turning eighteen soon, right around the time they graduated. Emmett thought it was fucking hilarious that the girls wanted to go on vacation to a tropical place in the heat, and I thought it was hilarious that he obviously wanted to be socked for thinking about my scantily clad daughters. The last thing I needed was for Emmett to start rehashing his "me and the three" pervy fetish dream while I punched him in his fat throat.

He was rolling the sleeves of his Brooks & Dunn shirt up around his elbows, the sinewed and steroidal arms flexing as he jostled the silver bartender shaker around. The ice was clanging and sounding like rhythmic maracas, and Emmett was practically bellydancing as he shook. Jasper was in "his" leathery chair as per usual, the only stipulation he had for hanging out in the ridiculous basement that we hung out in every night when we weren't in Vegas or making appearances for charity or on vacation.

"The girls, Ass. The girls. Spring break. Cancun. Bikinis, boys, and blue agave." Fuck. I have a headache.

"Dude, you're fucked. And seriously, brah, I think Bella's given you an STD. Can ovaries be sexually transmitted?" I stabbed an olive with a plastic cocktail sword and lobbed it at Emmett, hitting him square in the center of his smug fucking face.

"Nah. I agree with pretty boy," Jasper drawled, walking over to the record-spinning Wurlitzer he had bought Emmett for his thirtieth. Jasper stretched out and rested his palms on top of it, eyeing the selection with a wrinkle in his brow.

"Why'd you take out the Pretenders, E-Funk? Anyway, I've seen the new bikinis. Alice took the girls out to LA last week. Edward _should_ be worried." Jasper let a small smile curl his lip before turning back and punching his selection. Bad Company filtered out from the juke.

At the same time I muttered "fuck" and rested my head on the bar, Emmett slammed his fist on the bartop. "I missed a show? Dammit. I hang out with my woman too much."

"Bella modeled her bikini, too." Jasper is _so_ fucking hilarious. His eyes smirked as he said it, even if his mouth stayed neutral.

"That is _it_." Emmett pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket and punched a button.

"Call Bella." Shit. I made to grab it, so he turned around, his hulking back covering my field of vision. I started to lob more olives at him. They left wet spots and a splotch of pimiento on him, but he didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Bell, Edward says spring break is a go if we can see the bikinis." Dick dick dick _dick_. I climbed over the countertop, but he reached behind himself and put a hand on my face. He had spoken so quickly that the phone call was over by the time I had one knee on the bar. He ended with "We'll be there in twenty," snapping his phone shut with a loud smack.

"Ass. Hole." I grabbed the first bottle of brown liquid I saw- Gentleman's Jack, fine by me. I hopped down neatly, screwing off the cap. I was nearly bowled over by Emmett's father as I took my first big swig. Blaine jogged in wearing a yellow sweater with Emmett's dimples lining his rugged face.

"Did I hear the magical words 'bikini', 'see', and 'we'?" he boomed.

"Pops, you do me proud," Emmett declared. Swig swig. Assholes. You'd think a guy's daughters would be safe, but nooooo. This was already in motion and I knew it; I also knew that I'd never win if I decided to fight it.

Didn't mean I couldn't be a complete ass about it.

Emmett grabbed a handful of cigars and hastily shoved them next to his cell phone while Jasper licked the tips of his pinkies and smoothed his sideburns down, using the chromed blender as a mirror. I just stood there, pouting and taking ever-increasing swigs from the filched Jack.

"Let's go, losers," Blaine said while walking out the door. I really had no choice but to follow them to the latest midlife-crisis-mobile (a "super tricked out" El Camino Jasper had overseen the purchase of) and supervise their outing. Calling out "hup", I tossed my bottle at Jasper and he caught it one-handed, settling in as I crawled into the bed.

"Give it up, bitch," I growled, snatching the bottle from his fingers. He had managed a big gulp before I got to it, but whatever.

Jasper knocked on the glass and like that, we were off- me guzzling, Jasper whistling despite the dust kicked up by Blaine's erratic driving, Emmett howling the lyrics of a rap song I didn't know.

We pulled into the graveled driveway of my incredibly expensive, non-inherited property just to be assaulted by the latest in soul-crushing synthetic hip hop beats that were pouring out of my custom-built, house-wide sound system. There were about fifteen cars up on my lawn; these assholes always assumed that the Cullen's gardener wouldn't mind. Jack offs.

I guzzled the last few mouthfuls of Jack and slowly crawled out of the convertible. Whoa. I either need to slow down the drinking or consume much more, much faster. Blaine and Emmett were jogging toward the side yard, their arms and legs pumping in tandem as they made the barely-controlled race to see who was the dirtier old man.

"You okay, hoss?" Jasper grinned. Oh, don't give me your sympathetic bullshit, you traitor. I knew Jasper was just as invested in my daughters' near-nakedness as the rest of the nasty bastards in this town.

I scowled at him and shook my empty bottle in his direction. Chuckling, he turned and led the way through the front door.

"Darling!" Out of nowhere, Alice came bounding toward us and leaped up into my arms.

"Petite," I replied, snarking an eyebrow in Jasper's general direction. He was never amused when Alice switched loyalties- mostly because it was his wife's passive-aggressive way to inform him that he done fucked up.

"Oh La Bella, your other lover is here," he called out, keeping eye contact with me the entire time. Oh, really? He wants to play that way? Gimme some more Jack, bitch. I'm going all in.

Alice crawled from my chest to my back. One thing I will say- I will always regret never tapping her ass back in high school. I might love the shit out of my wife, but that doesn't mean I won't stop appreciating the finer things in life. Alice's small body easily maneuvered around my frame, and Jasper responded by cracking his knuckles and flexing his neck from side to side.

"Oh, dear. Are you finally leaving me for my BFF, dear?" Both my and Jasper's head swiveled toward the staircase as the sound of Bella's clear voice rang out over the foyer. And fuck.

She most definitely went bikini shopping.

It's a sign of love everfuckinglasting that after all this time, the woman still makes my heart beat a little bit faster. She was wearing a simple white bikini. Her skin hadn't acquired that vacation-in-the-Virgin-Islands glow yet, and she never did lose that small handful of baby belly. In all the years we'd been together, she had never looked more delicious. I started to think of seriously dirty things while she bounced nimbly down the stairs, her freshly washed hair still wet and clinging to the sides of her neck.

"Lovely, as ever," Jasper said, taking her hand and pissing my shit off as he kissed the back of it.

"Oh boy. Are we playing 'whose dick is bigger' today?" Bella grinned as she willingly stepped into Jasper's arms. He swung her up and tossed her over his shoulder, where she lifted her head and waved at me and Alice.

"Hey, babe."

"Hmmph."

"Oh, Edward. Don't be mad. I just really think the girls should get out of the house."

"And the only way to accomplish this is by parading them in front of our friends and neighbors? Blaine is here, Bella. Blaine. Just do me a favor and don't bend over near him. I don't want to be explaining myself to your father for once again assaulting a McCarty."

"The Chief told you last time that he was giving you a medal."

I didn't answer. She was grinning too much, and I saw the swagger escalate in Jasper's gait, meaning he was seriously amused.

"All of you can just… fuck off," I said lamely. We had reached the kitchen and therefore some of my booze.

There were about ten high school boys leaning on the fucking island. Disgusting.

"What the fuck is Prescott Newton doing in my house? I thought I made it quite clear to Michael Newton the Third that summer Bella and I got engaged that if he or any of his blood set so much as a surly glare directed at my property that I would end him. Why is his spawn here?" I demanded. I sailed over to the counter and there she was… beautiful and green and glowing. My Glenfiddith. I grabbed a low ball out of the cupboard and poured, taking a swig right from the bottle and washing it down with a swig from the glass.

"Edward, we talked about this." Jasper backed up so that Bella could put her hand on my arm in comfort. I shook it off.

"No. I do not want, nor will I ever accept, my daughter dating a Newton. "

Bella sighed in frustration, shaking her wet hair out. "Babe-"

"Nope." I took my glass and my bottle and decided to face the world.

I was going toward the pool. Toward the bikinis, and toward my bastard friends and neighbors. The Oglers. The Low-Lives.

As I opened the French doors leading to the lower porch, I used my forearm to shade my face. The colors were _blinding_.

It was like a beach blanket bonanza movie exploded in my backyard, only the bikinis were sluttier. And on my _daughters_. And my fucking _wife_.

"There he is. Man of the hour." I heard Blaine's asshole bass booming across the backyard. There he was, showing off his "golf swing" to a group of younger guys. You'd think he'd sport some sort of shame after the passage of the years and the wives, but nah. Still a douche. Still the hero to many a young man, as evidenced by the boys surrounding him as he pretended to instruct on golf… when in fact, he was probably making either lewd jokes, lewd suggestions, or a combination of all three.

Resisting the urge to run him over with one of my golf carts, I instead approached the group, putting my scotch-holding arm around Newton the Kid and my free arm around some other equally pretentious LaCoste polo-wearing kid. "Hey, Old Man McCarty. You still owe me."

I had interrupted his swagger, but as always he recovered, giving me the shiny white McCarty grin that made panties drop all over the state of Washington.

"This Old Man can still fuck you up, Sullen Cullen. Owe you for what? You owe all of us for bogarting the hottest MILF in Forks," he returned, guzzling his Sidecar and waggling two fingers at the maid. She giggled and tottered off, wiggling her ass just for Blaine. His latest thing was "hittin' it" with all of the civil servants in town; our maid was to be his piece de resistance, the final holdout; unbeknownst to Blaine, Bella and I were paying her double to tease him without fucking him.

"I don't bogart Bella, Blaine. I fuck her raw, and I fuck her often. But that's not what I wanted to talk about. You owe me for fucking up my nine iron, old bitch."

"Well, your cheap-ass Tiger-sponsored Target piece of shit got a rust stain on my favorite white linen trousers, moody bitch."

"Not my fault your intensity's for shit, Old Man. I'll accept payment in the form of a Target gift card for my lady."

"Oh, I'll give your lady a gift."

"She doesn't like saggy old packages, Blaine."

"At least I know my balls have dropped, Edward-san. You sure them twins are yours? They're much too hot and-" I stopped listening. The retorts were automatic at this point; Blaine and I often had exchanges like this, but I wasn't in the mood. It was mildly amusing to watch the younger generation take us in, memorizing our one-liners and zingers like it was a Tarantino script. But I had better shit to do.

Like pick on Little Newton.

"So. Young Prescott. I hear you're trying to fuck my daughter." Bella says I'm too blunt sometimes. I always blame Blaine's influence. Blame Blaine. Ha. I sipped the rest of my scotch and reached my arm out behind me, knowing the help would have another ready. He/She didn't disappoint.

"S-s-sir?" he stammered. I could feel his shoulders trembling beneath my arm, and I enjoyed making him squirm. I caught Blaine's eye and decided to let him play, too, so with a near-imperceptible nod of my head, I gave Old McCarty the go-ahead.

"Yeah, Newton. Hasn't your father told you to stay away from the Cullen Girls? Don't you know about the Hotchkiss Curse?"

"Curse?" The poor kid looked confused, and the other preppy clones leaned in to hear yet another Tall Tale from Camp Counselor McCarty.

"Dude. You don't know the curse? Why do you think the Good Doc Cullen is on his umpteenth wife? And _on_ his umpteenth wife. Hey-ohh!" He held his hand up, and the kid nearest him winced as he prepared for the high five that smacked so hard that I might have Carlisle check the kid's spine out later.

"You think that's bad? Edward here went the other way. He can only be with one woman for life. Life, gentlemen. It's a sick, sick thing, this curse. You might think it's bullshit, but lemme tell you a little story about Bella's Grandpappy Hotchkiss. See, when he married the beautiful Miss Maisie Fisk, little did he know-" and off he went. I chuckled as the boys all leaned in and Blaine took a knee. I took the opportunity to spill my drink on Newton's lap when Blaine slapped him on the shoulder for emphasis, then away I went, searching for… I didn't know, exactly. Another drink.

And another was put into my hand right away. They're wrong when they say you can't find good help these days. You really, really can; the lethal combination of my money and my wife's ability to surround herself with fiercely fucking loyal people saw to that.

I was just beginning to finally fucking relax when all of a sudden, my asshole clenched as I straightened, tossing back my glass and remembering why the hell the whole town was in my backyard.

My three girls were strutting out of the house, clad in their fucking non-existent fucking bikinis. Jesus fucking Christ.

My first urge was to run over and cover them up, which Bella must have seen coming because following the girls was my wife. Wearing yet _another_ brand spankin' new, very simple, very teeny bikini.

I didn't know whether to be pissed or pleased. She certainly knew how to work her husband, because while I was quite aware of the buzzing going around the yard, I kept my eye trained on Bella.

In a bikini.

It's a great feeling, that smug satisfaction one gets. Knowing that every man in a fifty-mile radius wants to fuck your wife. It's even more amazing being a hundred percent certain that she only wants to fuck you.

I guess I'm just pretty fucking lucky.

"So. Are you really not going to let your daughters go to Cancun?" Bella came sashaying up to me, holding her arms up and locking her fingers behind my neck. I kissed her forehead and slid my hand down her back, fingering the ties and checking that she had double-knotted them. I wouldn't put it past Emmett or Blaine or even Rosalie to show the reigning non-salined tits of Forks to the all the young'uns.

Bella began curling the ends of my hair with the tips of her fingers, lightly brushing her cool skin on my overly heated neck. I could feel her nipples pressing into my chest, and I was beginning to consider the merits of a quickie in the pool house when I got distracted by the sounds of splashing and giggling.

Sadie and Lucy's squeals told me that they were being pushed into the pool. I saw Eleanor sailing gracefully through the air, her dignified splash as different from her sister's obnoxious waves as was her hair. She had inherited my arrogance and my untidy bronze; the twins were the identical spitting images of both Bella and Renee. Just my luck. Two of them gorgeous and flirty, the other gorgeous and a dick.

Really, I couldn't be any prouder.

"Come on, Edward," Bella said, clasping her hand in mine and leading me to the pool.

Someone had made red and blue Jell-o shooters and was passing them around; I ignored the tray and instead caught the eye of some high schooler checking out my daughter's asses. I gave him the universal finger across the throat "I'm going to kill you for eye-fucking my daughter" sign and he rolled his eyes at me. I was about to dive in and cut the fucker when Bella held her arm out.

"Now, now. We wouldn't wanna ruin a perfectly good fucking party, would we?" She squeezed both a red and a blue into her mouth, flicking her tongue along the folds of ruined paper cup to get every last drop of Jell-o.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" She looked all innocent, as if she didn't know how easy I was to control after all these years.

"Stop seducing me. You already know I'm easy."

"What, this?" She began to get obscene with another Jell-o shot, and I would have let her if everyone weren't already staring. This jealousy shit was getting old, even to me. I knew I could trust her. I just… oh, fuck it.

"Gimme one of those things," I said, looking for the tray.

Alice padded over, her marvelous tits bouncing over in a bright pink bikini top thing. Jasper moseyed over, shirtless and in a pair of jeans I think he stole from me back in high school. He was also sporting a ridiculous belt buckle that he would proudly announce he won while playing gin rummy with an old cowpoke who taught him to rope steer.

"Wooderson," I said, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction. He grinned and put his arms around both Alice and Bella, fitting one hand on her hip and the other on Al's newly firm tit.

"Jealous bitch," he replied. "They do keep getting younger. The girls are out to play today, I see." As a unit, the four of us turned to the pool, watching the teenage set splash and carry on. Rosalie made her way over, a thin-stemmed champagne glass in each hand.

"I'm bored," she proclaimed, giving Bella the once-over behind her mirrored sunglasses and turning her shoulder slightly.

"Then fuck your husband. You know, change up your routine." Bella didn't even bat an eyelash, and I saw Jasper subtly shift his weight. It wouldn't be the first time he prevented the two of them from scratching each other's faces off over the years, nor would it be the last. I suddenly wished Emmett was there; I'd put good money down on my woman pushing Rose into the pool.

"Five hundred on Rose." He had appeared out of nowhere, resting his elbow on my shoulder and ruffling Alice's hair. She smacked his hand away and made to elbow him in the junk, but he scooted his ass out and laughed. "Either way, it's win-win. That Bella of yours, man. White bikini? Please and thanks. Let's see them raisins she be smugglin', nukka."

"You're an ass. You're also on. Get ready to pony up, bitch. No way Rose wins this one. I have it on good authority that the pharmacy mixed up her happy pills again."

"Shut the hell up, you fuck. I wouldn't want Bella's 14.99 two-piece to disintegrate in the water."

"Yeah, boys. Leave Rose alone. Just because I still have the breasts I had back in high school and she needs yearly tit tune-ups, doesn't mean you can pick on her."

Rosalie opened her mouth to speak when a wave of water hit her, soaking her pants.

"You look like a pissed-off cat about to strike," Jasper laughed, and Emmett picked his wife up in his arms.

"Yeah, thanks for getting my pussy all wet, ya jerkoffs!" he hollered, his smile making us laugh and Rose even more pissed. She started struggling, so Jasper reached into Emmett's back pocket for his wallet and I grabbed his cell phone.

"Thanks, boys. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes anyway," he said, then he jumped into the pool, Rosalie and all.

"Aaaaand that right there is why we keep that bitch around," I said, suddenly relaxed and glad for these assholes I kept company with.

"So I take it Spring Break is on?" Bella whispered up into my ear. I ducked my head and just fucking gave in.

Like I'd ever be able to refuse her anything.

She must have signaled to the girls because I heard nothing, but in an instant I was assaulted in a three-sided and wet hug.

Their exuberant thanks were all I needed, really. They were promising me good grades and no more wrecked cars, but hell. I looked over at Bella and smirked; she responded by mimicking a blow job and indicating that we should go inside.

"You're welcome, girls. Go do me proud and push Uncle Jasper into the pool, will ya?"

I jogged over to my wife, leaving the sounds of Jasper's feigned protests and other hollering behind us.

"Shall we?" Bella put an arm around my waist.

"We shall."


End file.
